M for moody

I am done. 

Kaput. 

Klaargelag. 

I have spent countless years squeezing myself into the expectations of womanhood, and I'm finally ready to opt out. Not just from the usual suspects - heels, bras, and anything requiring a zipper - but from the whole exhausting game of maintaining an outwardly appearance that, frankly, no longer interests me.

For decades, I have plucked and threaded, cleansed and moisturized, cut and dyed, and like a chameleon, changed myself to fit the various modern trends foisted upon us  by clever marketing gurus, each one more dodgy than the next! To make you, the reader understand the ridiculousness of this, all I need is to say one word, "eyelashes!" How is this still a thing in 2025?

How is it even possible to dictate what women should be wearing, we are not carbon copies of each other. Imagine... me a pear trying to fit into an hourglass... that was fun for about a minute! I have contorted into leggings that threatened my circulation, strapped myself into bras with underwires that scaffolded and lifted leaving dents that underlined the boobage making it almost cartoonish once released, and donned heels that have restructured the very anatomy of my feet. I have taken up Pilates to “stay strong,” forced down green juice and matcha that tasted like the contents of a lawnmower bin, and pretended to enjoy mindfulness, when in reality, the only thing I was mindful about was the food I would be devouring that day!

More masterpiece than au natural, a curated, polished, effortful figure that glides through life with grace and poise, and just the right level of hotness and beauty. Ai ja, just writing this makes me tired! At 59, I have come to the startling realization that I simply do not care anymore. In fact, I care so little that I am actively embracing the opposite. Call it radical self-acceptance, call it gatvol, I'm calling "minute" (enough) on the filtered and constructed version of myself! Yes, I have gray hair, and not the sexy salt-and-pepper type either -no, mine looks like a landing strip! I have sagging bits and bobs, and am more Kitka- loaf than washboard, and I squish when I sit down and clap when I'm doing jumping jacks, but with the plumpness that has settled on my maturing body, I must admit, I do enjoy hugging myself a bit more haha...

Eish, the same goes for clothing trends!  I am no longer willing to engage with clothing that has an agenda. No more waistbands that "knel" (pinch and crush) fussy fabrics that require special care or ironing or that demand a special bra... Or shoes that were designed by someone who clearly hates feet. My new aesthetic is baggy, breathable, and blissfully boring. Drawstring is my new best friend. If an outfit isn’t basically a portable blanket, I’m not interested. 

And underwear? 

Overrated.

Then there’s the beauty industry, which I am officially breaking up with. I have spent a lifetime battling gravity, time, and my own genetics, and I concede defeat. I will no longer purchase eye creams that promise to “reverse aging” when we all know full well that aging is a one-way street, and my car is firmly in drive. Can we maintain, yes! Can we stem the passage of time? No! And why should we. I want to look like a granny when I'm a granny! Ok, maybe still alluring , but definitely grannyish.

Makeup? Minimal, a dash of lip and cheek tint (direct enquiries to Zainab Parker-Martin) and "biesmillah" I'm out the door. I am embracing my resting, grumpy face in all its glory. I am no longer interested in looking “refreshed” or “youthful.” My goal now is to look just intimidating enough to make other grown ups think twice before misbehaving in public.

Socializing? Also on the chopping block. I’ve spent years making polite conversation at events I had no interest in attending, entertaining small talk, and that loud bloke prattling on about this or that. No more. My ideal evening now involves my couch, a book, and the blessed silence of my own home. 

And let’s not forget the slow betrayal of my senses. My eyesight is deteriorating at a rate that makes road signs an exciting guessing game, my hearing is selective at best (especially when people are saying things I don’t care about), and my knees now make noises that could be used in horror movie soundtracks. If my body is determined to fall apart, the least I can do is make the process entertaining.

So here’s my plan: I will grow old disgracefully. I will be the woman in the supermarket wearing an oversized abaya and slippers, sighing loudly at the price of milk and eggs. I will embrace my inner granny and wield it like a superpower. I will no longer smile out of politeness, pretend to be interested in small talk, or maintain any semblance of effort where effort is not absolutely necessary. And I will speak out loudly about Revolution and  against racism and capitalism and other life-sucking, dehumanizing isms...

I have earned the right to be heard and the right to let go. To exist exactly as I am, unfiltered, unbothered, and gloriously, unapologetically myself. The world may not be ready, but I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my sofa and an oversized cup of honey, lemon ginger tea. 

No bra required.