Vive La France

"You need to dress for your own age," said an unsolicited voice.

"Well how old do you think I am?",  I replied.  

An age was surmised to which I triumphantly replied: "Ha, I'm actually 6 years older! What do you think of me now?"

Here is what I am wearing: skinny jeans, a teal American Apparel t-shirt, a vintage Tyrolean blazer (I have the matching skirt) a vintage cream belt, a wool shally scarf that my Mom wore in the 80's by Echo, and a pair of sparkly silver Converse One-Stars from Tarzhey.  (For more on my Vintage Tyrolean Blazer please watch the video on the right, called Weird Plankton.)

Now I need to point out that the entirety of this conversation took place inside my head.  It did not get there on its own.  It was planted by those infuriating spreads in magazines entitled "Dressing for Your Age." with visual pigeon holes that you are presumably supposed to shoe-horn yourself into depending on what decade block you happen to be cruising through, eg 20's, 30's 40's and 50's.  What will I do when I am in my 60's. No box is offered for that decade. Do they expect me to go naked? Maybe they assume that I won't take any interest in my appearance when I'm 60. 

 

They would not try and pull that shit in France, whoever "they" are.  The women in France would beget a riot of soixante-huit-ean proportions (I am so cultured and cosmo, don't "They" know I can make my own wardrobe decisions?  I can misspell en deux langues, that's two languages to you, you not so cosmo Cosmopolitan Magazine editors.)

The Feminine in France is revered and celebrated throughout its trajectory. When I was at the wedding of my French friend Astrid in 2005 I noticed many woman d'un certain age in backless, sleeveless ensembles with rather daring decolletages.  And flirting with and being flirted at by men of all ages.  These ladies bathe in their femininity, and the blokes queue up in breathless anticipation of kissing their hands. That is what I am aiming for. To feel delight in how I look at any age and to celebrate and package myself in my own way, flappy skin and an all.  Most French women don't go in for plastic surgery; they don't have to because in France just having tits is considered fabulous enough. 

 

Funny that this conversation never took place when I was living in London. I refuse to conform to some arbitrary notion of how I should dress, even if that conversation started in my head. But I've seen the disapproving looks.

And yes, I am wearing THESE shoes with THOSE tights.