“You need to wear lipstick,” I often heard these words from my mother and her friends, long ago when I was seventeen or nineteen or twenty. It was an infringement, I thought, of my own style and sovereignty: besides, makeup in that time was strictly about the eyes. I looked at these middle aged women with wonder. Though they were careful to keep their fingernails absolutely perfectly shaped and painted, lipstick was the only makeup they wore. When was the last time they had had a good haircut? When not in their bathrobes, they wore the dresses that I remembered from my earlier childhood, and sometimes, just sometimes, they even wore mismatched shoes! And every last one of them was, well, round. How did that happen? Did you just turn forty and give up on yourself even as you coached young women how to look sexy?
Well, since then I’ve found some answers to that question. I looked in the mirror recently only to find that I’d become one of them, and no doubt, had been so for a long time. This is a high honor, in its way: I love those women! They were funny, charming, comfortable within their own skins, and had lived long enough, seen enough, to be really, truly interesting. They staged rebellions in ways that should impress any teen – if only adolescents had the awareness to realize it. Like the women portrayed in The Mists of Avalon, they could easily rise up and with little work, make themselves seem much taller, stronger, and more beautiful than they generally bothered to appear. In many – if not every – ways, they drank in life. I expected them to look beyond the lipstick issue. And perhaps they did. If anyone taught me that life isn’t all about looks, it was those “old” gals; and what a legacy I have inherited from them! I can still hear their joyful laughter three decades later.
Do I fit in that category? Hm. It would be nice; I tell myself I do. But whether or not I have earned my membership into that particular “club”, I certainly fit into the one in which I forgot something a while ago – I forgot to weigh in every day, watch my figure, dress sexy at least once in while, wash and moisturize my face twice a day, or take the time to do something attractive with my (thinning) hair. And I’ve decided that one thing happened, with two major effects. That event? Motherhood. Perhaps it’s like the story of the cobbler’s children, who go without shoes. After a long day of making sure every one is clean, brushed, dressed, coiffed, fed, cleaned up after, in the car on time, educated, homework done, teacher talked to, dates interviewed, prayers said, cookbooks scrutinized, wearing what?, home on time… well, we’d rather go to bed than worry about the extra twenty minutes of brushing, cleaning, coiffing ourselves. It’s so much more obvious to tell a young girl to take care of her looks! That’s our job as her mother!
Mae West
The second effect of motherhood, the physical aspect, is that well, one has curves like never before! And to my surprise and delight, I find that contrary to the barrage of messages by the fashion industry, my husband rather likes the curvy look! Sometimes I think fashion designers really would prefer to craft clothing for lanky teenage boys, but they are far less likely to put down the soccer ball in lieu of the department store. I suppose the ultra-thin, curve-less form makes designers’ clothes look better. But it doesn’t do much to bring out the loveliness of a woman.
Perhaps my roundness was a result of an unconsciously staged rebellion against the various vicissitudes of life. :- ) At any rate, I won’t go back. Mae West encouraged us to “cultivate your curves; they may be dangerous, but they won’t be avoided.” After all these years, after all this work and life, I think she was onto something: I would not wish to erase the curves, no matter what fashion dictates. By the same token, I look forward to being svelt enough to return to clothes that celebrate a woman’s figure, even if it means dusting off the sewing machine. And I’ll wear them, right along with my lipstick. Who knows? I might even get a good haircut.
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