I think it’s funny how people my age, and I mean exactly my age, are offended when I reference myself as fifty. I’m not fifty, I’m forty-eight, but really, at this point, what’s the difference? Two years! I’m told in squeaky voices of denial.
So, I’m not fifty. But I’m still getting old. I’ve been wearing the same style of Levi’s for more than twenty years now. When you can count things like the pants you wear in decades, you’re old. Although the construction of the jeans may have changed, 81% Cotton, 17% Polyester, 2% Elastane, I don’t think the cut has. (Did we even have Elastane in our jeans pre Y2K?) These are not high-waisted with elastic bands. These are the same 505’s I wore when I was 28, hardly old, right?
I do not own “Mom Jeans.” It’s a look I’ve grown into despite my arrested sense of style. The fault lies squarely with my “Mom Butt.” (pun intended)
It’s an optical illusion. As we age, we settle. My butt is lower, sinking into the seat of my pants, making it appear as if my waist were higher. Yes, there’re a handful of lucky “old” moms that don’t develop a hippy square backside. Or a generous front side. Of course there are some pushing fifty that still have a discernible waist not flanked by upper and/or lower bellies. Those without saddle bags to fill out the fabric in new and surprising places. Moms who eat right and exercise, sure, but mostly have genetics, surgery, and adoption to thank.
We gave birth! We grew and then passed tiny humans! Sometimes more than once! Trust me, that effs a body up– weighs it down, spreads it out.
Got breasts? Got breasts where they’re supposed to be? That’s a trick question. Wherever your breasts are is where they’re supposed to be. Once again, aging, birthing, and gravity have effed us up. Harder to be judgmental of those old ladies mall-walking with their boobs tucked into the top of their Mom Jeans now, isn’t it?
C’mon, we are the hippest generation of fiftyish ever. We do not intentionally buy “Mom Jeans.” And of course we’d prefer our boobs were higher and didn’t end up in our armpits when we lay on our backs. We want to be young, to be firm, to look cool, to strap in and shape up. To a certain extent, we can’t help the fit or the fall, the droop or the drag. We’ve earned this figure by procreating and living long. May all women be so lucky.
Next time, Aging Tales will discuss three inch cheek hairs and Grandma Fu Manchus.
Kidding! I’m only