Old like a fine wine, you mean . . .

I often anticipate a visit from Stacy and Clinton from What Not To Wear. Ever since I turned 35 earlier this year, I've gotten self-conscious of my clothes. I dressed too old for much of my 20s--too many hand-me-downs from elder aunts, mommies, and grannies--and then went on a "check my hotness out" during my late 20s and early 30s. Now I'm settling into a bit of a groove, but I do worry about some of my skirts being too short, some of my shirts being too tight or too low cut, and so on.

Turns out I don't need to worry too much. I was driving around doing errands the other day, wearing a typical Megarita ensemble. Jeans, boots, t-shirt and fuzzy sweater/cardigan. I may or may not have been wearing something involving pearls. (I have a lot--see note above about too much inherited stuff--so I'm trying to bring back the sexy pearls!) Anyhoo, I was driving around with the windows down, blasting some hard rocking sort of stuff because it was a good day and it was a band I like to hear in the car. (Korn, in this instance.)

I pulled up to a stoplight, happily growling along with Korn and vaguely bopping along, and I felt the eyes of another upon me. Looking to my right, I saw a teenager/college kid looking at me with complete confusion and what might be best termed horror. I probably looked like his freaking mother, only his mother suddenly knows too many lyrics to Korn. I can see that being upsetting.

At first I laughed, thinking, "Heck I'm cool." Then I glanced at my outfit and imagined myself a decade or two ago seeing a prof jamming to something I loved. Loathing. I've become what I despised. I whirled back to think of all the references I'd made in classes to bands I loved, to new bands I was listening to. I forced myself to acknowledge the winces that some of these references got. I may have killed the cool factor of TV on the Radio for an entire class.

In short, I'm too old to be cool. Adulthood is firmly ensconced. I am not their peer. After the despair of this hit me, I had a rather more soothing revelation. First, I was never really cool. Second, though, and this is what makes this post at least tenuously appropriate for this blog, I no longer have to worry about looking cool. If, as Stacy and Clinton might aver, I'm a little on the wizened side for miniskirts, so be it. Grace Kelly didn't need them. Katherine Hepburn was sexy in trousers. I will be ok in a sweater and pearls if necessary. And I'll still listen to Korn.