This is the age when I’m supposed to embrace myself,
to wrap my loving arms around my ego and my thighs and to
denounce the false ideals forced upon me by plastic fashion dolls
and runway models
built like I used to be, flat-assed, long-legged, stick limbs and a marked lack
of cleavage, false women who I heard
could not be real
and I was safe in my
imaginary skin.
This is the age when I should have my shit together
when I should have more than a pair of second-hand combat boots
and three more years to pay
on a car with missing hubcaps.
This is the age when I should walk
with confidence
full of all the wisdom
that I had at seventeen
head held high
wine glass in one hand,
the other reaching up to touch
my recently-trimmed hair
–I should have a girl who cuts my hair
and know the name of a restaurant
that accepts reservations
and doesn’t bring the food out
in red fake-woven baskets.
This is the age when I should pass
from weirdo to eccentric
when my t-shirts should be hip and retro
and not artifacts of life.
This is the age when I should know
what the fuck I should be doing, when I should
sleep
when people sleep and
feel
what people feel and know
by now
how to nod and smile and talk about the right things
at the right time
and my fingernails should not be painted black
for daytime and the kindergartener
swinging her legs
on the plastic chair
is grateful, perhaps
that at 42
she remembers that the best crayon
is periwinkle blue.