"I dress like a kid....and that's not all." Carol notes that our inner child can come out to play whenever she wants to. Read more of Carol L. Skolnick in "Chocolate for a Woman's Dreams"
I have a secret: I have more t-shirts than the concession stand at a ball game.
Few things make me happier than a shiny, brand-new pair of shoes.
If I had the figure for it, I'd never wear a skirt longer than six inches above the knee, or a blouse that covered the midriff.
I own a pin-stripe suit, but it's purple.
I'd rather wear an old, soft pair of jeans than anything else.
In my early forties, I still think I am too young for a negligee, sensible shoes, or diamonds.
I have more pairs of sneakers than dress shoes.
I take a (purple) backpack instead of a briefcase to meetings.
I would actually carry a "Hello, Kitty!" handbag...and wear anything advertised in the "Delia's" catalog that I could squeeze myself into ().
Dressing like a kid is just one symptom of the serious condition from which I and millions of others suffer in silence.
You won't find it in the DSM or the Physician's Desk Reference. It's not covered by health insurance. But it's a killer. Because when I wake up in the morning, I'm convinced I'm around fifteen...until I notice that twinge in the left hip.
A totally unexpected "oyyyy" escapes from the kvetchy depths of my inner grandma as I hoist my legs over the side of the bed.
Wincing from the early-morning ache in my feet as I plod to the kitchen to feed the cats, I catch a glimpse of a strange woman in the mirror.
Who is that?
It's not a midlife moment. I truly do not recognize that face. It's so...adult.
What happened to my twenties and thirties? Why didn't my brain grow older with my body? Why haven't my tastes changed?
I still eat the middle of the Oreo first.
I still prefer rock to classical.
Single men my age look an awful lot like my father.
I'd rather have a sweet, syrupy "umbrella drink" than an aged, single-malt anything.
I still think in terms of what I'd like to do "when I grow up."
I like the Warner Bros. store.
I think about getting more piercings in one ear.
I still whine.
At my age, my mother was mother to an only child who was the same age I erroneously think I am. She acted her age, and she looked it.
And ten years before that, she never thought twice about diamonds. Or negligees. She didn't own a single, solitary t-shirt.
Perhaps it's a good thing I didn't marry and breed at the customary time of life. If I had a teenage daughter now, I'd probably try to steal her boyfriend.
Not to mention her clothes.