Flannel shirts, faded jeans, Chuck Taylors, Doc Martens. For a few decades, I mourned the loss of my all-time favorite fashion trend. But now . . . it’s back.

I remember the first time I realized that fashion was cyclical. In middle school, I desperately wanted this blouse from Express with a Seinfeldian puffy-shirt-style fluttery and oversized ruffled collar and my mom chuckled and told me that those were in style when SHE was a kid. But when you’re 13, your mom is utterly ancient, and I was both amused at the idea of my mom wearing that shirt and horrified that she and I would have the same fashion sense. But the lesson stood: it all comes back around. Bell bottoms become boot cuts or flares. Platform shoes become stacked heels. 

The reintroduction of fashion is just another signal that you get older. Now, it’s my turn. Which leads me to ask . . . why the hell am I so freaking hot? I mean sure, I’m sexy in an overweight, nonobvious sort of way . . . but in this case, I mean physically roasting from the inside.

I’m hot, and sweating, and overwhelmed. You know how it feels to be outside on a super humid, 90-something degree day? This isn’t that. It’s as if a furnace has taken up residence in my abdomen, firing up and forcing heat throughout my body. 

At my age, this is a common symptom of perimenopause. However, the term “hot flash” is only accurate in that when I was pregnant, I was only sick in the morning. Once the heat kicks in, it can last for several minutes, but often it will increase and lessen over the course of a couple of hours. 

Getting older is full of contradictions, especially for women. You’re blessed with more days and years above the ground, rather than under it. But then there are the moments you can express the wisdom age has earned you, interrupted by brain farts. Eventually getting comfortable with and prepared for the fact that you’re always cold, then dressing in layers so you can strip almost to your underwear while outside in freezing temperatures when your body overheats. Understanding the wonder that is your body while aches and pains limit what that body can do. 

Sure, I’m more at peace with the shape and size of my body than I was when I was much younger, I wouldn’t want to give up the lessons I’ve learned over forty-odd years, and my marriage is in a great place . . . but let’s indulge in some more complaining!

I have facial hair now – not just a slight mustache, which I do have, or black hairs sprouting from moles – two to be exact – but a pale downy fuzz has grown over every square millimeter of my face. It holds on to my makeup and makes me look like a teddy bear. For this, I have purchased a “deplaning tool,” which is just an expensive way to say electric razor. 

As if gaining those hairs wasn’t enough, I’m losing the hairs from my scalp. It’s as if my follicles have decided to rebel and expel for a time, then relent and allow some to grow back. I go through good periods (like now) with fuller hair, then lose a lot. Once, after a vacation, I noticed that pictures my husband took from behind prominently showed bald spots. So I bought a wig. Then another. The pink one is my favorite. I don’t need them now, but they are put away, ready to be pressed into service when the time comes. 

The stiffness! My hands get stiff and sore when I hold the steering wheel. My hips get stiff if I sit too long, which makes me a chiropractor’s dream. But to see me attempt to stand and walk after sitting for a prolonged time is to see a cartoon of the theory of evolution: hunched over, taking small, tentative steps and gradually standing straighter and taking longer, surer strides. I’m a one-woman anthropological exhibit.

I would tell you about how, before a medical procedure, my periods resembled that hallway scene from “The Shining,” and how my doctor said that the cause was almost never hormonal, and I went through extensive and expensive medical testing, only to find out that the cause was, in fact, hormonal. But I won’t – that would be too personal, right?

And then there’s my foot. In my right foot, just where my big toe joint connects to the metatarsal, I began to experience a “clicking” when I would bend, then flex my toes. As if the toe got stuck, then popped out of a bubble. And it HURT. I thought it was broken, so I went to an orthopedic urgent care. The physician’s assistant informed me, after x-rays, that “at the very young age of 42,” I had arthritis. 

At the point I got this diagnosis, I had just finished my fourth half-marathon. As a runner who started in my late thirties, I looked to Jeff Galloway, a former Olympian whose event was the 10k, who now owns a running store and is the founder of the Galloway Run-Walk Method. At 78, he still runs marathons and half marathons – go to Disney World for a race weekend, and there he is. I hoped to keep on running into my much older years. But running is now in my rear-view mirror, way ahead of schedule.

The PA’s guidance was to wear sneakers, basically always. I love shoes. I collect shoes. When I got this advice, I had a collection of Old Navy one-dollar flip-flops that would coordinate with any outfit I owned. I had pairs of heels for every conceivable dressy occasion – job interview? Serious, beige heels. New Year’s Eve? Dressy heels. Black outfit? Black heels. Colorful outfit? Shiny, sparkly heels. Have you ever shopped for sensible women’s dress shoes? If you haven’t let me stop you: they’re ugly. They’are AAAAALLLLLL ugly. They’re black or brown and have comically rounded toe boxes and rubber soles, as if designed for nurses in mourning or for when a nun may feel just a little sexy.

Enter: The Chuck Collection. Specifically, low-top Converse Chuck Taylors, which I am happy are now fashionable (again), but I would wear them anyway because I love them, especially now that they have platform soles available with more support. I have six pairs and now I wear them with almost everything and to almost any function. They go with jeans and flannel shirts or even dresses. Of course, there’s always the smarmy, “Sneakers? With a dress?” which I am happy to answer with, “I have arthritis.” 

But still . . . heels. I miss them. I had this dream, a dream I was saving my spare change and any extra money to buy. Sleek, shiny, sexy Christian Louboutin patent leather kitten heels with that notorious red sole. My husband asked me where I would wear them, why I would want them, and how would anyone see the soles anyway? Oh, you simple, simple man. #1 – every occasion that even slightly required dress shoes. #2 – Because they’re Louboutins, duh. #3 – people would see the soles because every time I would wear them, I would sit with my legs crossed and my raised foot would be flexed so everyone could see that flash of red because, dammit, I earned these $800 shoes.

Oh, well.

I will break down and mention some of the great things I’ve discovered about getting older. I have the most amazing relationship with my kids, who are grown and flown. And because they’re adults now, my husband and I go on vacation alone. Half the people on vacation? Half the cost. And now the “empty nest” is more like a honeymoon suite. I get to indulge in better skin care at Ulta, so I get more points to spend on skin care at Ulta. My patience has improved so, so much, yet I’m less inclined to put up with others’ bullshit. And, of course, my favorite high school clothes are back and I can afford more of them now!

Getting older is like leaving your old life behind and becoming a new person. I remind myself that anyone who lives long enough is lucky to get old. So each time I discover something new – like a two-inch hair growing out of my mid-thigh, or a sore neck because I swallowed too hard (yep, you hear that right), I roll my eyes, then count my blessings. Top of which is that when every other woman is suffering in stilettos, I’m comfy in my sneakers.