Apparently I'm Still Making Questionable Choices

Part Three of a series on midlife, money, visibility, and learning not to disappear.

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the idea that by this age, money would feel calm. Managed. Settled. That I’d have grown out of impulse and into permanent prudence without really noticing. That hasn’t quite happened.

To be clear: my rent is always covered. The bills are paid. I save a little each month. The basics are handled. Responsibly. Reassuringly.

But anything left? Anything left is apparently fair game.

Sometimes it’s a spontaneous flash of B&M-ness — those inexplicable moments where you go in for one thing and come out with six, none of which were essential but all of which felt briefly necessary. Other times it’s Carvela shoes or a bag, which I justify far more easily because they are, in my mind at least, perfect.

I used to assume this meant I lacked discipline. That I hadn’t fully matured into the sensible woman I was meant to be by now. But I’m starting to think it’s something else entirely.

Because so much of midlife is built on restraint. Sensible shoes. Sensible hair. Sensible spending. Sensible reactions.

You become very good at managing, moderating, smoothing things over. You learn to be appropriate — financially, aesthetically, emotionally.

At some point, though, that kind of discipline starts to feel less like wisdom and more like slow erosion.

Which brings me — unexpectedly — to fashion.

I had finally made peace with skinny jeans. Not in a trend-chasing way, but in a home way. They were comfortable. They worked. They didn’t require constant adjustment or strategic mirrors. Thank you very much.

Then I noticed the wide legs creeping back in.

Ordinarily, I would have dismissed them immediately. My legs are already wide without the trousers. Why add volume to the situation? Why invite unnecessary scrutiny?

But fashion, like everything else at this stage of life, is persuasive. Quietly insistent. So I tried them.

And annoyingly, they hid everything. They skimmed where I’d expected them to cling. They created shape where I’d assumed there was none.

Here we go again.

Of course, even wide-leg comes with choices. There’s wide — just grazing the front of your shoe — and then there’s wide — you could have size fifteen feet and still not see your shoes. And everything in between.

For the love of God, why are there so many choices?

Of course, wide-leg bottoms don’t actually work with the other thing I’ve been clinging to — long, oversized, comforting tops. Apparently not.

No, my (online) fashion advisor suggests more fitted T-shirts. I can see why. It’s about balance. Proportion. Visual logic.

I do, to be fair, have quite a good midriff, so I’m not complaining. But it does come with conditions. Namely: the correct bra. Because once the top is more fitted, the breasts can no longer be left to their own devices in a casual, at-home-only bra.

Everything has rules. Even comfort.

The skinny jeans, once so hard-won, were gently relegated to the bottom shelf. Wide-leg jeans took their place. Then wide-leg trousers. Then — in a turn I did not see coming — wide, soft, gloriously forgiving leisure trousers that somehow manage to look intentional rather than apologetic.

This is the pattern, I’m realising. Not indecision, but evolution. You arrive somewhere, get comfortable, and then life asks you — again — not to disappear, but to adjust.

I am now — somewhat belatedly — learning to budget properly. Not because things are out of control, but because I’d quite like them to be intentional. I don’t want to stop enjoying things. I just want to know why I’m choosing them.

And then there’s the hair.

Against advice, implication, and polite concern, I dyed it bright red. Not discreet. Not tasteful. Proper red.

“You’ve got such a pretty face,” a woman said kindly. “It's odd that you feel the need to try these crazy hair colours like the youngsters.”

I smiled my best smile. Because that’s what we do. But what I heard was: visibility has an expiry date.

Here’s the inconvenient truth. I didn’t dye my hair to look younger. I dyed it because red makes my skin look less grey and more alive. My blue eyes stand out. I don’t have to overdo the makeup — which is always a benefit.

It turns out this is the balance I’m learning to live with: restraint and indulgence in the same life. Thoughtful spending and the occasional irrational joy. Responsibility without erasure.

My rent is paid. 

My hair is red. 

My trousers are wide.

Some people approve. Some clearly don’t.

I’m no longer confusing maturity with disappearance.