Letting Myself Go

​I'll admit I have a bit of a Tik Tok habit.  It’s kind of embarrassing to be a 54 year old “Tik Toker.” I’m not a producer of content, just a consumer.  I find myself growing disenchanted with the platform more and more.   An increasing number of people on the app assault my self esteem on the daily by assuming that I desperately want to look younger, erase fine lines and age spots, remedy my graying hair, reign in my girth, and attract the male gaze.  And they all want to sell me something.  I guess media has always been this way.  But in the past they were models, spokespeople, PROFESSIONALS.  There is something about real women in their kitchens stressing over their crows feet and trying to get me to stress about mine.  It’s like the democratization and normalizing of self loathing.

I do not care about my crow’s feet, thank you.  I do not care to dedicate one more hour or dollar to that cause.

I did obsess about my appearance for the better part of 30 years - applying daily face sunscreen since I was 21, largely because Glamour magazine told me to.  I have spent enough time coaxing my hair, tweezing, blending, primping, picking and patting to have earned five doctoral degrees.  I have worked out with Jane Fonda, run half marathons, done thousands of barbell curls and planks, fad dieted, and counted calories.  I have shopped the sales, bought full wardrobes in three different sizes since adulthood . . .  rode the wave of so many fads.  I’m so old we are recycling fads I embraced decades ago.  

And I am done. So done. 

I crave to hear someone say, “She’s let herself go.” I hear that whole phrase differently now.  In the past it was announced like a cancer diagnosis - with a tinge of disgust mixed in. It carried shame, as if a woman had lost her purpose and was an embarrassment to family and friends. And we loved the “redemption” story - the makeover episode, the Oprah comeback in her jeans, the whole Glamour Shots industry was built on it. So weird in retrospect. We participated in our own reduction. We became passive dolls to be plucked off the shelf and  . . .God forbid, what if we were not picked?  Tsk tsk. So sad. We all played the card game Old Maid.  

But let us not forget the nuns!  I swear the nunnery was a refuge for rebellious women.  I see it now.  So radical to say “no thanks” to centering the male gaze, “no thanks” to centering men at all (well, except Jesus, lol) and YES to surrounding yourself in a matriarchal communal structure centered on contemplation. This lifestyle choice was also handy insurance against accusations of being a witch. And that habit was a brilliant alternative to hairstyling woes.  As a young woman, nuns were bizarre to me.  Now? GENIUS response to "the system."
 
She’s. Let herself. Go. 
 
Deconstruction: A woman . . .  allowing herself, centering herself, focusing on herself . . .  being kind, generous, granting permission. . . and  she’s on the move.  No longer passive, no longer waiting, acquiescing, pausing.  Not a doll, not a sidekick, not a helper, a mate, a role.  She’s got the main character energy now. 
 
I’m letting myself go.  Hell, I’ve let myself go. And I’m going to keep letting myself go. 

So don’t tell me to get back in the box. Don’t chase after me with the old fear inducing stories. . . . the products, the potions, the irons.  Those stories were never big or true enough and those products didn’t bring peace.  
I’m busy living a new bigger truer story, a fuller life, filled with less doubt.  I get dressed for me.  I embrace my silver crown of hair, I am embodying my Queen season.  I do yoga because I like it, I walk because nature holds me (and my dogs love it), I look for opportunities to get together and GO - go dance, go laugh, go explore, go learn, go feel, go see/hear/touch/taste.

I’ve LET MYSELF GO, YA HEAR?  I’ve. Let myself. GO. And I’m not going back. The future now feels like the sun on my (still sunscreened) face and wind at my back. Not like a doomsday I need to prepare for through TikTok Shop. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.  And the next day, and the next day.  Each one unfolds with new wonder since I’ve let myself go.

It takes alignment and privilege to get to let go, I know.  Your social network, your job, your intimate relationship(s)  . . . they matter.  I feel so very lucky to have that alignment happen at 54.  The next 30 years will be very different from the last.  I’m excited!
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See you on the dance floor, queens!