It all started with socks and Birkenstocks.

I admit it—I secretly laughed at those who did not have the sense to put a bag over their head for the shame of such a fashion faux pas as wearing socks with sandles.

One day I looked down at my feet and gasped—I had become one of *those people*. (As I write this I am wearing fuzzy purple socks with my Birks—good grief.)

I also frequently wear the same clothes, sometimes two days in a row. I used to pride myself on all the different combinations I could create. I could go months without direct repetition. I’ve also noticed that I eat more with my fingers, and with spoons. Spearing things with my fork seems like too much trouble sometimes.

I have more and less patience. I have more patience for mistakes made from innocence, or lack of knowledge, or ability. I have less patience for those who consciously choose to behave in a way I don’t think is right. (Apparently, I am not yet old enough to let go of the idea that I know what is best for all human-kind.)

For me, aging is as much about attitude as body changes. I’m quite happy with that belief; I can control my attitudes, but I’m not doing so well at stopping the aging process.

Two or three decades after I felt so sorry for those people who did not seem to care if others disapproved of them, I find I have become one of them.

So, as I walk down the street with my purple hat and Birks and socks, I can look at the young, hip people I see and think “someday, you just might look like me” and smile.

I just had a thought…if I feel this way at 49, how will I act and dress in another 20 years? It boggles my mind.

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This