Seventy is the New Thirty??

If orange is the new black, and sixty is the new forty, then I think seventy should be the new thirty…or purple…or chartreuse…or something. Who comes up with this stuff??

This year I hit the big 7-0. The start of a new decade, a new era, a new whatever. I know some of my friends and family don’t wish to share their age, and that’s okay, but I think I’m going to own seventy. I mean, really OWN it! It’s taken me seventy years to grow up to be this zany, carefree, madcap, crazy lady that I am. And like Jenny Joseph wrote in her poem, “Warning”, I can wear purple with a red hat that doesn’t go, because now I have an excuse for my eccentric behavior!

 

“Warning”

By Jenny Joseph

Written in 1961

 

 

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?”

 

“Another Warning”

By Carolyn Anderson Jones

Written in 2019

 

 

“When I am an old woman I shall wear a mini skirt
With stripes and plaids that don’t match,
And a big, floppy hat with Lennon sunglasses. 
I shall spend my social security on Vegas, baby!
And Chippendale shows, expensive spa treatments,
And fancy drinks with tiny umbrellas in them.
I am going to sit on a patio in Paris and sip champagne,
And nibble on croissants with raspberry jam and butter,
And ring all the doorbells along the Champs-Elysees.
I will join protest groups and marches, 
And drink elegant martinis and fine wines now that I can afford them.
I will run barefoot in the park and pick all the exotic flowers,
And call my friends to bail me out of jail.
And fart when I want to.

You can wear tie-dye shirts, grow marijuana, eat three pounds of bacon at a time,
Or only Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream for a week. 
And hide jewelry in strange places, adopt a dozen homeless cats,
And collect wine corks for crafts.

Back in the day I wore sensible business clothes to work,
And paid my mortgage on time,
And never cussed or made hand gestures while driving with my children.
And friended people on Facebook,
And shared pictures on Twitter and Instagram,
And practiced being old.

 But is it possible I practiced a little too much?”

Slainte’ to all the Women of a Certain Age!

I am woman, hear me roar…in a floppy red hat!

R-E-S-P-E-C-T – Find out what it means to me!

You go, girl!

Put your big boots on, Cowgirl!