Growing Middle-Aged Disgracefully

Apparently middle age is now pegged at sixty.Fine by me, I was planning to live to a hundred-and-twenty anyway. I would like to know how we are all going to stay employed for all those years,though.As the retirement age creeps up to eighty,as it surely must ,what on earth will we all do? I have a darling friend, a mere babe-in-arms at forty, and a babe in all other respects too, who has encountered an attitude injurious to her self-esteem. Namely, that all women over twenty-five or so ought to be culled,or failing that, knit themselves a burkha from steel wool and spend rest of their their lives cleaning the kitchen.This was the prevailing view amongst the other women with whom she worked, and the workplace in question was a grim Government "service provider", not a strip club.
Speaking of which, I was working for a company not so long ago, who rejected a very attractive woman  I know,sight unseen, because she was considered (at forty-five) too old to serve drinks to the general public. I can only suppose that the mere sight of this frightful crone, dragging herself along behind the bar,kicking aside the shrivelled bits of flesh that would fall off her if she picked up speed, would put the sensitive chaps off their eleventh pint. And again, this dismal attitude was loudly expressed by a  woman of a similar age.As she was doing the interviewing, this was no mere toothless prejudice.So yes, I am rather cross about this,and I think we all have to resist. I myself am growing middle-aged disgracefully, and refusing to go gently into that pair of elasticised slacks. If you are ever feeling excessively jaunty, and fancy a come-down, do go and look at the clothes which are recommended for ladies past thirty-five. We see pleated skirts, suicide-provoking knitwear, and terrible print frocks.We see shoes like Cornish pasties, and vile synthetic fabrics.We see dead people.
Unfortunately, my son thinks this is just grand. When I am dressed to go out, he follows me around,doing up buttons and growling at my high heels. It's rejuvenating in that it is just like living with my Dad again. My father was a stern gentleman of Scottish origin.Had he not been an office manager, he would have made a very effective hellfire preacher. His idea of suitable attire for a young lady was an outfit based upon those habitually worn by the late Margaret Rutherford.He would  have considered the burkha dangerously revealing. I would totter forth for a restricted evening out,wearing ,you know, Seventies stuff,it wasn't exactly a Slut Walk. He would stand in the hall and inspect my kit. There would be WORDS. My Mother, a bohemian Celt of the Irish Romantic school, often had to referee. But her decision was final,and my Dad would then retire, muttering and sulking, to read the Liverpool Echo in front of "Panorama". And now it's all happening again, with the Giant Boy. I have had to promise him not to befriend any of his pals on Facebook;"Because they will SEE you".
I used to try and buy clothes in the South of France,you know.If you were six months old or an extremely aged housekeeper, you were laughing. Baby clothes and aprons with cicadas printed on them, that was your lot.Oh, and underwear.Even the tiniest town boasted lingerie shops that made Coco De Mer look like Millets.
So, at whatever age, and wherever you are, there will always be some frightful bossyboots telling you off. Ignore them.Wear what you like, think what you like, and for God's sake don't take any notice of  that poem about eventually being old and wearing purple;it's a very good colour for people without tans. Now I am off to skateboard around Lime St Station, and see if I can get my luggage "Destroyed or Damaged By the Staff", like they say you can.