In a month, I will be observing another birthday. I feel good about it, I feel healthy, I’m clocking my 10,000 steps and sometimes more a day. I wear my sneakers (preferably Allbirds) most days, shrugging off the heels, although my kicks have an arch, always. I am most comfortable, as I have always been, in a pair of jeans—skinny, I like the way my ankles are hugged by a flexible denim—, a hoodie, a t-shirt. I prefer bra-free. I wear oversized sweaters, I prefer a V neck and I prefer a cashmere against my skin. These pieces feel comfortable to me, they have been part of my uniform the whole of my life. I hope you have the items in your drawers and closet that you feel most comfortable in, without furrowing your brow. Without feeling like you’re on blast for your style choices. I hope this is my uniform when I’m 90. I don’t subscribe to the conceit that I need to dress a certain way to reflect my age. Partly because my age, in my mind, is fluid; when I look in the mirror, I don’t see the visibly older Marcelle, I see the most comforting version of myself, and she varies from day to day. It’s part of the shift in how I see myself as I get older, as aging can be frightening (Oh, Mortality!) but also liberating, liberating from the confines of the male gaze, or the pressure I used to put on myself when I was in my twenties, striving to be thinner than the thinnest without being anorexic. I don’t care about thinness anymore. I care about feeling comfortable. And what I’m wearing is key in that paradigm. And in a month, when I celebrate this next birthday, you can bet that I will be celebrating with my friends, and I will be wearing my favorite dancing kicks.
RIP Ms. DuBois.
A little on the L Word.
What’s up with that mole?
Brain food for real.
And now have a laugh with Amber Ruffin.