Today’s post is difficult for me to write. Not only do I have to part with a dress I actually really like, I also have to finally and fully admit something that I vehemently denied in a little midlife memoir I penned just three short years ago:

I am too old for certain clothing.

When I wrote that book, I basically called bullshit on the whole concept of “age-appropriate dressing.” (This is probably because I was getting my information from the Internet, which a) cannot spell, b) is almost always drunk and c) cannot for its life distinguish your from you’re.)

One know-it-all website said that after 40 I could no longer wear too-long skirts, ratty sweats or “mom jeans” (as if any of these had been perfectly acceptable at 39?). Another self-appointed expert banned “animal prints and disco fabrics,” and I had to assume she meant wearing them together, because who doesn’t love zebra stripes and sequins? And then there was this bit of cutting-edge advice:

Screw you, polyester-pants wearing advice lady,” I thought. “I am a confident woman, and confident women can wear whatever they want!” 

And then I put on this dress.

I really like this dress. It’s a gorgeous shade of eggplant and it’s made of this stretchy, decadently soft velvet and I particularly like the bondage-detailing. Here is what you cannot see: It’s tight. Like, sneeze in it and the seams might burst-tight. Also, it’s short. As in, I cannot lift my arms in it even a little-tight, or either it will stay where it is and my boobs will pop out the top (and when I go clubbing* Ima need to shake my guns, people), or it will hike up with my arms and you’ll see something… else.

It’s also worth mentioning that when you’re rapidly approaching fifty (sadly, not a typo), you have better things to do than worry whether you’re going to contract an STD simply by sitting down.

Clearly it has to go. GETTING OLD SUCKS ASS. And I’m okay with that.



*I do not go clubbing