I’ve just browsed through hundreds of photographs of C.Z. Guest, the founder of WASP style and an all-American actress, author, horsewoman, clotheshorse and socialite. Then I started to see them in chronological order – from her younger years to an image of her being helped up the stairs at eighty years old in a gold gown and pearls at the Met gala. My god, ageing has never looked so tragic!
Which has me thinking. Is there any point in holding out for designer clothes until I’m older just because I can’t afford them now? And ironically, they’ll look the best on me now than when I’m eighty-two pulling a C.Z. Guest, holding on for dear life to whoever bystander happens to sit beside me on the TTC.
Ageing is awful – and if you’re a woman, it is akin to obsoletion. No one has use for a little old lady wearing the latest Celine bag or Chanel jacket. Sure, the young ones might think it’s cute but in the same breath, a sigh of relief that they’re still in the pink and their knees haven’t started to landslide yet. It’s coming, my pretties, the landslide is coming for all of us.
Sipping margaritas over dinner with my three best friends last night – very SATC – the topic of age came up. Partially because we’re obsessive but mostly because we had gathered to celebrate their thirtieth birthdays, which lucky for them, came a few days apart from each other. I’m all alone in August turning thirty with no help from nobody. I wonder, if I go into the middle of a forest and turn thirty, does it still count?
“Age is just a number,” chimes our token lawyer.
The married one starts: “But if I want to have a baby, it has to be in my thirties. Well, I’m thirty. Am I ready?”
“Watch out,” says the perennial pessimist with no plans to wed or procreate anytime soon, “pregnancy in your forties is like rolling the fucking dice.” With a flick of her wrist, she sends an imaginary dice tumbling towards the middle of the table. “It’s dangerous, man.”
That’s the problem with biology – not only do our knees start to go, but our chance at being moms gets more and more improbable with age. Even adoption is risky. You could break a hip when your child is only five years old. Imagine? It just doesn’t work. Everybody knows a big reason for having kids is to have someone blood-related and able-bodied to take care of you once the landslide comes, in the hopes of inheriting your closet full of Chanel bags and Cartier jewelry.
C.Z. Guest was lucky. She was rich and gorgeous at a young age. She could have her babies whenever she wanted because she’d still have enough money to go around for couture. I mean, if the next stop for me is motherhood when the fuck am I getting my Kelly bag? Hm? It’s going to either have to double as a diaper bag or no game.
No dice, actually, as my friend would say.
I guess the real answer is you can’t have everything in life so the best thing is to live in the present. If that present means buying yourself a present instead of depositing money into your RRSPs, then why not? You might not even make it to cash them in – and you might not even want to buy that designer dress when you’ll only be wearing it to the senior’s home “Waltz Like There’s No Walker” dinner dance. Sigh.
Is there ever a “right time” to buy a Chanel or have a baby – or should we just roll the dice and hope for doubles?
Lol! This was hysterical. Love it!