To the young woman in the short skirt..
Jan 23, 2024 9:27:02 GMT -5
worksforme2, Missingout, and 1 more like this
Post by greatcoastal on Jan 23, 2024 9:27:02 GMT -5
medium.com/middle-pause/to-the-young-woman-in-the-short-skirt-a230105a4720
To the Young Woman in the Short Skirt
Revel in your power
Sheri Jacobs
A young woman wears a black leather mini skirt and a half shirt that reveals a flat torso.
Long legs…longer life…the beauty of youth.
My22-year-old niece sent me a photo of herself on New Year’s Eve.
Toned, long legs that stopped by the black leather afterthought of a skort. The bare skin of a flat torso. Shiny blond hair in ringlets down to her waist.
The picture was sexy on steroids. She was beauty personified.
And yet.
The five-word text that arrived with the photo told me a completely different story:
Do u like my outfit?
There it was: the verbal ache for approval. The need for someone outside of her to say she’s wonderful.
Her pose, her lack of clothing, her uncomfortable shoes, and heavy makeup all screamed: please like me.
I texted back what she was hungry to hear, carefully avoiding the emotional quagmire of addressing her fashion choice:
You look stunning in anything you wear.
It was the truth. Only she couldn’t see it. Not at 22 years young.
Beauty in Mid-Life
A blond woman wearing only white holds her hands up as that of an eagle soaring.
Life in middle age offers the freedom from caring so much about what others think.
In midlife, the world around us starts to look like a Twilight Zone episode. People with birthdates in the early 2000s drive cars and can vote now.
And we, the ones who were not-too-long-ago considered “young” are now sporting readers and care more about our A1C and cholesterol numbers than the amount of our social media likes.
I remember my niece. Of course, I do. I once was her.
Flat stomach, long hair, plump skin sans visible pores or chin hairs…
If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be:
Rock that short skirt — if you want to. But know you don’t have to. You are a ripe peach on the branch. You don’t have to try so hard to be desired or liked. You could wear a paper bag for clothing and still be stunning.
Youth is a time when you aren’t aware of gravity.
The body — it just works. No cracking. No aching.
Youth renders us a mortal superhero. Cut your finger? Give it 10 minutes, and it will be a memory.
But Youth doesn’t provide a gift that arrives with age: perspective.
The beauty of middle age? We feel the herniated discs, the pinched nerves. We’ve watched our loved ones leave — either through death or circumstances. Our cuts go deeper than mere flesh and blood. We’ve lived several character arcs.
Middle age is standing dead center on Life’s balancing beam.
Look to your left, it’s the Time of No More; look to your right, it’s the unknown Exit Point.
I want to shout at my beautiful niece, “You have the world at your feet,” until its truth reverberates in her soul.
Only she won’t hear it. The words won’t make their way to her soul because she is still so far left on the balance beam to ingest them.
Would I wear that short skirt now? The shoes that pinch off circulation in your big toes?
The half-century me would certainly not. I’ve fallen in love with Comfort and with myself. I’ve fallen in love with appreciation for who I am in this journey.
But the me on this just-shy-of-center balancing beam has a torn meniscus and degenerative discs on her neck. Perhaps…if I possessed the body of Youth, free of cracks and fissures, I would.
Whatever I’d be wearing, I wouldn’t be asking what you thought of my outfit. I’m too far along Life’s balance beam to care.
To the Young Woman in the Short Skirt
Revel in your power
Sheri Jacobs
A young woman wears a black leather mini skirt and a half shirt that reveals a flat torso.
Long legs…longer life…the beauty of youth.
My22-year-old niece sent me a photo of herself on New Year’s Eve.
Toned, long legs that stopped by the black leather afterthought of a skort. The bare skin of a flat torso. Shiny blond hair in ringlets down to her waist.
The picture was sexy on steroids. She was beauty personified.
And yet.
The five-word text that arrived with the photo told me a completely different story:
Do u like my outfit?
There it was: the verbal ache for approval. The need for someone outside of her to say she’s wonderful.
Her pose, her lack of clothing, her uncomfortable shoes, and heavy makeup all screamed: please like me.
I texted back what she was hungry to hear, carefully avoiding the emotional quagmire of addressing her fashion choice:
You look stunning in anything you wear.
It was the truth. Only she couldn’t see it. Not at 22 years young.
Beauty in Mid-Life
A blond woman wearing only white holds her hands up as that of an eagle soaring.
Life in middle age offers the freedom from caring so much about what others think.
In midlife, the world around us starts to look like a Twilight Zone episode. People with birthdates in the early 2000s drive cars and can vote now.
And we, the ones who were not-too-long-ago considered “young” are now sporting readers and care more about our A1C and cholesterol numbers than the amount of our social media likes.
I remember my niece. Of course, I do. I once was her.
Flat stomach, long hair, plump skin sans visible pores or chin hairs…
If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be:
Rock that short skirt — if you want to. But know you don’t have to. You are a ripe peach on the branch. You don’t have to try so hard to be desired or liked. You could wear a paper bag for clothing and still be stunning.
Youth is a time when you aren’t aware of gravity.
The body — it just works. No cracking. No aching.
Youth renders us a mortal superhero. Cut your finger? Give it 10 minutes, and it will be a memory.
But Youth doesn’t provide a gift that arrives with age: perspective.
The beauty of middle age? We feel the herniated discs, the pinched nerves. We’ve watched our loved ones leave — either through death or circumstances. Our cuts go deeper than mere flesh and blood. We’ve lived several character arcs.
Middle age is standing dead center on Life’s balancing beam.
Look to your left, it’s the Time of No More; look to your right, it’s the unknown Exit Point.
I want to shout at my beautiful niece, “You have the world at your feet,” until its truth reverberates in her soul.
Only she won’t hear it. The words won’t make their way to her soul because she is still so far left on the balance beam to ingest them.
Would I wear that short skirt now? The shoes that pinch off circulation in your big toes?
The half-century me would certainly not. I’ve fallen in love with Comfort and with myself. I’ve fallen in love with appreciation for who I am in this journey.
But the me on this just-shy-of-center balancing beam has a torn meniscus and degenerative discs on her neck. Perhaps…if I possessed the body of Youth, free of cracks and fissures, I would.
Whatever I’d be wearing, I wouldn’t be asking what you thought of my outfit. I’m too far along Life’s balance beam to care.
