Bairbre Power
I’m still shopping for the body I want, rather than the midlife one I have
I’m a shopper. Not a shopaholic but definitely a shopper. I enjoy the whole ritual of the hunt and the go-see, try it on, find it in a bigger size, go for coffee and then go back to buy it. In the smaller size, but of course. I’m guilty as accused, still shopping for the body I want as opposed to this midlife one I’m currently trying to befriend.
She’s not the friend I would have chosen 30 years ago if I had sat down to write a letter to my future self. This ‘pal’ looks more frumpy than the hippy in me might have liked but I’m doing my best to come to peace with the new me. Grey roots and stiff joints, puffy hands and a very sensible desire to have a night in at the weekend with a great book, a little jazz and a cheeky bottle of Italian red. All desires for dancing after a dinner-a-deux have vanished. Who is this woman? Sometimes I give myself a right fright when I’m taking fashion photos for my Instagram account. I tap on the screen of my phone to focus it and suddenly, it flips from fashion model to selfie, causing me to groan — firstly because I’ve now missed the shot, but also because of what I see staring back at me — a frayed-around-the-edges version of my younger, ‘hippie’ self.
Maybe that’s why I loved so many of the outfits at London Fashion Week last weekend. Many designers drilled back to the 70s which is when I first started buying clothes and consequently, my default button means I’m all up for a gypsy neckline and a handkerchief hemline. I pride myself on being a realist and as I’ve matured and accumulated birthdays, dress sizes have increased too, but some midlifers I know live in complete denial and keep reaching for the same size hangers they’ve bought for years. Oh, the porkies I’ve heard from women who really should know better. “Oh I’m a size 10,” they announce with a fake, wide-eyed innocence when you feel like telling them in no uncertain terms they are double their shoe size — in other words, they’re a 14.
Drawing a veil over midlife insecurities, we appreciate low lighting and those flattering, smoked glass mirrors you find in posh stores. Vanity sizing was created to put balm over wounded souls as waistlines expanded and brands have shifted their metrics to make us shoppers feel skinnier. I was shocked when I read how our granny’s size 12 back in 1958 is now a size six. That’s quite some shift to assuage our vanity.
What woman are told and what they want to hear are two very different things and it’s so often the case with make-up. Ok, so maybe it’s better to avoid sparkly eyeshadow over 50 and powder, unless it is finely milled, only congregates in your laughter lines. And I’m still on a quest to find a red lipstick that won’t ‘bleed’ for a smoker pal.
This week, I took advantage of a spare hour in London to buy a new make-up foundation and found myself with an assistant half my age, encouraging me to buy a shade, or three, lighter than I would usually. Her sale
I’ve been living with this face for over half a century and I know I will look ill in that alabaster colour
pitch was to stay pale for winter and add colour with blush and contouring. Now there’s a word this midlifer hates — contouring. Those YouTube videos of girls doing up faces like a Bridget Riley painting put the fear of God in me. I’m full sure this platter puss could do with some judicious contouring, but I’m way too nervous. I suspect that Irish women have a ‘thing’ about ‘warmer’ foundations because of our northern hemisphere lives, quietly lusting after a Mediterranean lifestyle, but the closest we get is eating a Mediterranean diet.
My ‘warm face’ mania is ironic given that I hate false tan so much. I hate to see fashion shoots with models with tanned limbs and a pale, ethereal face.
Back in London, the perfumed sales lady got huffy when I didn’t succumb to her sales pitch. I was treated to eye-rolling, so I gave it to her between her perfectly painted eyes. “Look, I’ve been living with this face for more than half a century and I know I will look ill in that alabaster colour. I don’t want to have to field questions about whether I’m unwell — I want warm, Mediterranean warm and I promise to blend it all the way down my neck, and while I’m here, can I have a cream for my crêpey neck.”
See? Who says I can’t sometimes be a realist when I go shopping?