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My New Look

I look great for a woman in her 50’s.

I’m 37.

From toting my babies, I now seem to have the arms of a heroin addict, minus the track-marks: all bony and ropy and veiny. Madonna’s arms, only slightly less mannish. And because I got a terrible case of Mommy-Thumb, I now have to wear a wrist brace on one hand and, for carpal tunnel, another brace on the other wrist. So, now I’m THAT woman – Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids meets professional bowler.

When I remember to feed myself, I eat like a squirrel: it’s not eating, it’s foraging. I shovel. Food flies. I used to be dainty, for fuck’s sake.

I run my errands in sweats, a hat, sunglasses. In the past, pre-kids, this look could’ve been interpreted as – I don’t know – incognito. I’m not saying I once, not too long ago, looked like a disguised star (or heiress, whatevs) trying to hide from the paparazzi, but let’s just say you could have used the phrase “casual elegance” to describe my former self, if you were partially blind. (Stars: they really ARE just like us!)

Now, because I shuffle out of exhaustion, this same look is less incognito, more homeless woman who has somehow managed to acquire a Coach purse. Shabby Homeless. Is that a style yet? Should be.

Carrie Friedman

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