The Reason Glamour Magazine has Never Called

When I was born and raised, back in the 1950's and 1960's, women were supposed to be glamorous. In fact, my mother insisted that I spend a few miserable months in charm school somewhere in my early teens. I learned how to walk, how to speak without ever really expressing an opinion, how to tilt my pinky finger when drinking tea, and how to appear glamorous at all times. The only thing I remember from charm school was how to tell what fork to use first. The rest is a distant blur.

Maybe that is because I was never destined to be charming. It has taken me quite a few years to come to terms with this, but now that my 65th birthday is fast approaching, I can honestly say I don't give a rat's behind. There. Was that glamorous enough for you? It was for me. As I sit here in my jeans, sneakers and t-shirt in front of the computer, I am totally comfortable with my glamour-free status. Here is how I have arrived at that conclusion:

I am sitting in front of my computer with the air-conditioner going full tilt, and I am sweating like a pig. There is nothing delicate or feminine about the way I perspire. I am soaked, with drips leaking from my ears to my shoulders, and my face is a fully reflective surface. My hair is kinky and damp, and showing no visible signs of a style. Glamorous women somehow withstand excessive heat, with nothing better than a handkerchief to dab at their moist cheeks. I need a bath towel.

I am long enough past menopause to be sprouting a few testosterone-fueled and very dark hairs on my chin. Not enough to spend thousands on a laser treatment, but enough to pull out a razor every morning and get rid of them before I scratch someone while doling out a hug. They are in direct proportion to the long white hairs suddenly appearing in the middle of my eyebrows. I swear they grow in overnight, from nothing to an inch or two in length, and sticking straight out as opposed to up or sideways. The hair on my head, however, seems to be getting thinner with every haircut. None of this seems very glamorous to me.

Also, my waistline has disappeared. I was never one of those hourglass-shaped lovelies, but at least I could wear a belt without it disappearing between two distinct folds of pudginess. Now I cut the belt loops off of my coats and sweaters. Maybe folks will think it's the clothing that drapes without an indent, and not the body.

I can not wear high heels. I had a grand old time back in the 60's and the 70's with my platform shoes and 5-inch heels, but just looking at what is selling in shoe salons currently makes my arches ache. I have my wonderfully comfy sneakers, and three different colors of my favorite walking shoes. None of those colors is chartreuse. There are two pair of sandals I can wear, one flat and one with about a one-inch heel. Even that feels risky. My balance seems to have disappeared with my waistline. I used to walk like a model. Now it's more like a Model T.

Makeup does not work on this face. I spend far more than necessary at my local cosmetics counter, but my attempts to achieve a "smoky eye" look more like an eye that has been firmly punched. My rosy cheeks are more likely from rosacea than from the correct color of blush, and any attempts at contouring look like I'm preparing for a football game in bright sunlight. Mascara is out. It makes my eyes itch. And I was actually trained as a makeup artist.

At some point I thought over all of these facts, as well as a few more, and decided that being glamorous just wasn't in my cards. I had a few minutes in my twenties when I could turn heads by walking into a room, but now it's probably because I have tripped over something. I think my most important accomplishments have not been based on looking just so, but more on what directions I chose to look. I was lucky to discover early on that glamour was pretty boring stuff, and had very little impact on the human race as a whole.

It's not that I look forward to being a frump as I get older, but I sure look toward continuing to make one big positive dent after another in the lives around me. I can't always look in the mirror and like what I see, but I sure do like who I see.