Overalls or How I Know I’m Old

You know how I know I’m old?

Because stuff I used to wear as a kid is popular again, and not in the ironic, hipster kind of way, in the conformist, commercialized, they-sell-it-at-JcPenney’s kind of way.

Seriously? Really? Already?

I’m woefully unprepared for this. At best, I have the emotional maturity of an 11-year-old. I’m not ready to start making clothing choices based on nostalgia. I’m too damn young for nostalgia, right?

Except maybe I’m not.

I’m almost 30, an age I once thought of as at best, advanced and at worst, ancient. (Don’t worry people over 30, I was an idiot.)

I’m most certainly at an age where Kid Me thought I’d have everything all figured out. But then again, Kid Me always had a predisposition toward hubris and having stupid opinions. (Really, Kid Me? Nick Carter is going to be a significantly bigger star than Justin Timberlake? Bad call, Kid Me. Bad call.)

Now, if I actually know anything at all, it’s that I will never have everything figured out. I probably won’t even have that much figured out in the grand scheme of things. Heck, I’ll be lucky if I ever figure out why hashtags are a thing.

(Seriously am I the only person under 30 who keeps accidentally calling them pound signs?)

Whoops, I may have just unitentionally illustrated my point there — I’m getting old and becoming increasingly out of touch.

Lately I’ve become increasingly interested in the comfort level of my shoes and increasinly disinterested in popular music. (Though I’m slightly ashamed to say I do like that Jason Derulo/Snoop Lion song “Wiggle.” Don’t worry, I hate myself a little for liking it, but it’s just so damned catchy.)

That’s probably one of the best parts of old(er) age — you become increasingly less interested in giving a shit.

Am I embarrassed about loving (yeah, I upgraded it to loving) that bizarre “Wiggle” song that sounds like a child’s sing-along song gone all wrong and raunchy? Yup, yup I am. But did that stop me from proclaiming my love for said song (albeit, slightly reluctantly)? Nope. Because who cares?

I don’t. I don’t care at all because I’ve decided to just lean into this aging business and become a stereotypical, devil-may-care, crotchety old lady years before that type of behavior is warranted.

Stereotypical, crotchety old ladies know what’s up. They do what they want when they want. They don’t answer to anyone and they don’t apologize. Above all, they do not care what anybody thinks of them because what’s the point?

If people like you, they like you. If they don’t, they don’t. If you’re being perfectly nice to them and they’re still jerks to you, there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. And there’s certainly no sense in worrying about it.

Sometimes people just have crappy taste.

If you need proof please see the recent resurgence of 90’s style overalls.

(Editorial note: Not all mature ladies are crotchety. Some are delightful. And some are delightfully crotchety because they’re just cool like that.)

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