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Act your Age

My 30-year-old daughter bought a package of socks. When she opened them she found that each and every sock was different. Looking on the label she found it clearly said Mix not Match.

“Don’t you know it’s cool to have mismatched socks?” I asked her.

She answered dryly, “Yeah, if you’re thirteen.”

I guess she doesn’t get it… if you dress the part and all? Just ask the 50-year-old in line at McDonalds with his pants hanging off his hips. You dress young, you must be young, right? That is one fashion fad I really don’t get. Aside from the fact that those pants look really stupid, like you have a long body and short stubby legs, have you ever tried to walk with your pants down? Some of these guys have the technique down pat, their legs spread apart, hips moving forward in a stroppy swagger that they think is sexy but actually looks ridiculous. Anyway, that panache is a young man’s gig for a reason.

And take the 45-year-old-plus waitress with a tattoo sleeve and multi-colored hair, shaved on one side. Fools me every time into thinking she’s a hip young whipper-snapper. (Does the word whipper-snapper make me sound old?)

That being said, who gets to decide what exactly is acting your age? What year-impaired fool thinks he can choose what’s cool or not? Fitting in is for Jr. High. Now that I’m a big girl I can decide whether I want to wear a wedgie thong, comfy grannie panties or anything else.

When my mother turned 80 I asked her, “If you could choose to be any age, what age would you be?” She looked at me as though I had insulted her and replied, “I wouldn’t go back to any age. I like where I am.” Although confined to a wheelchair, her attitude set her free.

So what’s it to you if I want to motorcycle, sky-dive, crossword or knit? If I want to rock in my chair or out on a dance floor, it’s nobody’s business but mine. Should I dye my hair black or let the gray have at it? I get to choose, not some youth-obsessed punk who thinks they’re the Kosher Police. Embracing my maturity or immaturity is defined by me and only me. I've earned that right by getting this far in life.

Who is anyone to declare which guy looks cool in a man-bun or high-waist pants? Or which old lady has a right to wear leggings and a short skirt if she wants to? What self-appointed magistrate can rightfully judge the idiocy of low riding pants, tattoos and funky hair?

I can wear mismatched socks and be awesome whether it’s on purpose or not.