My very first post, back in 2006, was about “the age of cuteness.” Here’s a paraphrase:

There are many signs of aging that we know will happen. Strange spots that weren’t there yesterday, a memory that floats out of reach, enough excess skin to incubate a penguin egg. But here’s one that surprised me: I have an ever increasing desire for “cute” clothing.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s finally circling back to the point that you don’t much seek any one else’s approval. Getting back in touch with your inner child which is more colorful and fun than the outer you has been for years. Or some damn thing.

It’s basically harmless I guess. Except if the cute gene passes down through the generations, like great-grandma’s souvenirs from the NY World’s Fair. In that case, my darling Linda, I want to apologize to you and the boys. I couldn’t help it. Maybe you could point out a few of auntie’s good qualities – I never kicked a dog and I know how to plunge a toilet.

Anyway, I try to keep Cute under control. The lower on the body, the more likely to is to be decorated by a shitload of adorable.

I let my feet go wild. Shoes in a rainbow of colors with an assortment of straps and button and, yes, bows. And, oy, the socks. Peeping out from my pant legs is a menagerie of animals or swirls or stripes, many adorned with metallic threads. I actually have three pairs of socks with chili peppers, each in a different hue.

North of feet, things get a little more tailored. I mean even I know a woman who wears Size Big Butt Baby shouldn’t prance around in the yellow spandex capris. It’s tempting, though, and I might age into them, like a fine wine takes on the essence of its barrel.

My chest area is a billboard awaiting adornment each morning. I gave up on words across my chest when sayings swelled in the middle but disappeared under my armpits so nobody could read the whole message without ducking and weaving (a fond farewell to you, www.depair.com for years of lovely memories). I still avoid imprints of kittens, puppies, and teddy bears in the chest area. But damn, it’s near impossible to say no to a really, really big explosion of rhinestones or sequins.

This is all a lead-in to tell you about my new glasses. After thirty years of contact lenses, I had to admit my eyes felt like crap most of the time, so I gave up and went back to glasses. The problem is bottle-thick lenses and astigmatisms and graduated lenses with at least three prescription changes. This is not a recipe for cute. In fact, this is a recipe for glasses so big and clunky they could double as a helmet. But I have at last found the frames that can tame my lenses. Lots of color, yessir, black in the front with aqua bows and lovely brown squiggles fading into green ear pieces. Some might even call them cute!

By the way, the age of cuteness seems to cover dogs, as well. I’ve always had sensible dogs like collies and springers. But now, Bella!