In assuming the promised mantle of the DGAF manner of fucklessness prophesied in passing out of one's 30s, I am finding it particularly easy, useful and fun to fully shed the weight of other people's judgments.
Like, I dress to delight me, so that when I catch a glimpse of myself, the image bouncing back to me is festive and ready for this daily party of life. And when I go to bed, face scrubbed and hair bound up for bedtime, the last thing I say to myself is often, "You are so beautiful." I say it as lovingly as I would to my own child.
It's not about vanity--and who cares if anyone thinks it is?!--but about honoring myself in this mortal moment, in this body that has done miracles and still carries me through the sensory pleasures of being momentarily alive.
I don't owe anyone trendiness, or their idea of how I should age, or whatever they think is the right amount of nudity or coverage. My hair is wild, my body still works, and I carry the peace of self-compassion into whatever battles may inevitably lay before me.
I am aging, and I am changing--admittedly gently, but all the same. Those changes are written into my face and flesh, and I find that the more I move forward with a sense of relishing the moment rather than "fixing," the better the result. I’m trying to keep worry off of my face and out of my heart. I don’t always succeed, but that’s the goal. My smile lines are well-earned, and my tired eyes reflect creative wee hours at odds with the early wake-ups of my most delightful creation: a small child who grows bigger every day, and who is a living timeline of my passage out of youth and into a different kind of adulthood.
But my own girlhood is still within me. That girl's imagination, wild dress sense and love of performance still inform my daily decision-making. This body I care for was once hers, a gift from my own mother, and though the vigor of childishness has somewhat left me I do insist on keeping the playfulness as much as possible. Janelle Monáe recently talked about entering a new season, and not clinging to the idea of remaining a past version of herself, no matter how celebrated. I thought it was such a beautiful articulation of growth, evolving within ourselves to embrace what's new and lovingly set down what doesn't fit anymore.
So, I don't give a fuck. I'm not going to meet expectations. And there is a great, fertile bounty to be had in that.