The Hormonal Umbrella

Aging is random in the timeliness of when it decides to gut you out. Some people have what I call the "Cher" genes" , they never age,  in fact they almost look better as they age. And some others have ailments that were always there that slowly ate away at their health and by 40 or so the deterioration shows like a volcanic eruption of screamingly flawed doctors visits. The bodies are now a special issue of the "Don't" section from Glamour magazine in a most un-glamorous fashion. Don't smoke , Don't eat sugar and don't wear white Daisy Dukes... if I knew I had PCOS twenty years earlier my body might at least look my age. But at least I know enough not to wear spandex and tube tops while standing in direct sunlight , because I was "told " it is so..
When I was younger I got made fun of for preferring my hair to be in colors of the rainbow. Now it is trendy and you can buy them in Walmart.
 What?!
 Back then one was edgy by simply wearing all black instead of matching teddy bear sweaters , now it's "Goth".
OK ...
Labels...
 My heart grabs for the purple hair color, my common sense says no ,  just a soft word trying to protect me from future online bullies after random strangers take my photo and post it with unappealing memes...  I truly believe that you are as old as you feel , that clothes don't make the man and who cares what people think. Yet there I was selling out , going for a strawberry blonde that might look stupid on me with my skin tone... at least it was a safe change. I had to be realistic I was not a famous clothing designer like Patricia Fields who could carry it off. I was no longer Beth Ditto -esque. I do not judge anyone with creative style , do what you want at any age . But  for me just being there in the hair color aisle I knew I was only chasing the past , it was comfortable  , a sweet memory . I miss that girl , I don't know who this woman is now , a family member to other people.
I feel as if that girl is buried underneath poetry journals of yesteryear. Now my poetry is scribbled on a Dunkin' Donuts napkin in between errands.

 When exactly did I go from being the weird one at the back of the class to the housewife in floral prints? How does it happen?!... Does time just chip away at the cool-o-meter until discussions of laundry become interesting?  Does survival distract us all for so long that our lives disappear under the wrinkles and rolls of fat? Ten years can go by and one morning there are lines on your face , and you start to look like your dog , and then the gray hair invades your tresses uninvited. People ask you to go places and you wonder if you can walk that far or if your purse is big enough to hold a few depends pads... The simple yes or no reply is no longer an option.
 I am not unhappy or regretting just becoming aware of the changes at a disturbing rate. As my hand hurts if I write with an actual pen for too long , as I pick hairs out of my Peri - Menopause chin I cannot ignore the time that has passed. I had better skin at 17. Life can be cruel.
I  do keep some club clothes in a plastic bin just in case the time machine comes back to give me another chance. I have enough blue metallic leggings and sequins in there to dress The New York Dolls all over again. I lost my Doc Martins over the years to my dismay. Those were my go to boots comfortable , cool , well made and you were ready to run down city streets in a flash whenever needed.