Like Vegas, Los Angeles is a town full of slutty women wearing inappropriately short, inappropriately tight clothing. Cleavage is spilling out onto the sidewalks of Beverly Hills and it ain’t pretty. It’s like the entire city is one big strip club. And you know how it is at strip clubs. Why pay for a dance when you can enjoy the one your neighbor is getting for free?
Recently a date of mine asked me what I see for myself at age fifty. I replied, “more of the same, but better.” I love life and I have no fear of aging. I believe that like a good wine, age is making me better—smoother, more balanced, with tannins that are less harsh. But enough wine references. Let’s just say I am no “Peter Pan” or the female equivalent. I plan to age gracefully without excessive plastic surgery or the insecurities that accompany such beauty obsessions. Evidently, that’s not what he meant when asking what I see for myself. He was asking about my attire and whether I’d still be wearing mini skirts.
Let me start by saying while I live in a city where the women are known for wearing ridiculously short, tight dresses that stop just below the water line and look like they’ve been spray-painted on their surgically enhanced figures, I am not one of them. I live by the motto that a dress should be should be tight enough to show that I’m a woman and loose enough to show that I’m a lady. I go for sophisticated over slutty every time. Sure, I own a couple of mini skirts, but they’re a good four to five inches below the water line. The majority of my dresses are classic designs by Karen Millen and Gucci that fall just above the knee.
Where was this comment coming from? I wondered. He referenced a very hot day not long ago when he saw me in a pink mini skirt. Allow me to clarify: an A-line, loose fitting mini skirt that fell mid thigh, which I wore with a tank top and flip-flops. I was not rockin’ the mini with six-inch stilettos, fishnets and a leopard print push up bra. I was just being comfortable on a suffocating, muggy LA day. Evidently, my pink mini was cause for concern.
Was he worried that other men would be ogling me and thinking lascivious thoughts? Newsflash, Mister. That’s gonna happen whether I’m wearing a mini skirt or a paper bag. Did he fear that I’d show up to a charity ball in a tiny Hervé Leger dress instead of a floor length gown? Did he have Islamic values I was unaware of and want me to wear a burka? I’ve seen Bill Maher’s burka fashion show and I didn’t find a single outfit appealing—although they do really bring out one’s eyes.
I think he was just being a typical territorial male. You know, the kind of man who wants his woman to be a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom. Well, I’m all for that concept! But, I’m not pulling out all the stops—or shall I say toys and lingerie—for any guy who’s going to be that controlling or judgmental about the clothes I wear. I have a smoking hot body and he should be privileged just to be sitting across from me at dinner. And if I can rock the mini at 50, you bet I will.
The funny thing is, I wasn’t even wearing a dress that evening. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Black jeans. Black tank. Black YSL platforms. And I was rockin’ it hard!