We Have to Talk About This

Let’s face it: as much as we’d like to think we’re evolved and tolerant, human beings are judgmental. You are. I am. Your Uncle Angus is. So is the Pope, though he probably would not tweet about it.

To maintain politeness, perhaps we should refer to judgments  as judgmental preferences. That has a gentler ring to it, doesn’t it?

I’ll admit it — I have many, many judgmental preferences. And I don’t pretend that I don’t. You shouldn’t either.

“Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged”…

It’s in the Bible. Luke 6:37. We all know it, and we all quote it — usually right before unloading a hot opinion of our own.

And I try. I really do. I try not to be a walking sermon. But then someone wears a tube top to a funeral or to church, and suddenly I’m channeling a fiery “you’re gonna go to Hell” preacher on Sunday morning.

When I told a friend I was writing this, she said, “Oh, so you’re going to preach again?”

Me? Preach? Yep, that’s me.  I’ll own it.

Let’s call this a sermonette. A little fireside chat for my fellow chronologically gifted women — those of us who have been around the cultural block a few times and lived to tell the tale. Women who have canceled a lot of obvious nonsense, and see life a little more clearly now… because we no longer care about impressing anyone under 30.

Let’s Talk About Jeans. Yes, Jeans.

I like Sydney Sweeney. She’s a gorgeous, flawless girl with not an ounce of visible fat. She rocks those jeans in the ad like she was stitched into them by Beyonce’s mom, who is said to make her daughter’s gorgeous and sometimes gaudy outfits.

But here’s my judgmental preference: not everyone is Sydney Sweeney. And yet — bless our hearts — many of us dress like we are.

I get it. It’s your body. Your choice. Wear what you want. But if you’re over 50 and your muffin top is staging a prison break over the waistband of your skinny jeans, I reserve the right to have some preferential thoughts. You can say, “If you don’t like it then don’t look.”
Well, my dear, I wasn’t looking. It was visually and emotionally assaulting me.

Let’s Zoom Out for a Moment

 People say, “If you don’t like what’s on TV, change the channel.”
But here’s the thing: even if I don’t watch what I consider trash, the culture watches it. And over time, what was once “shocking” becomes “edgy,” then “normal,” then “why are you even complaining?”

It’s a slow drip, a cultural drip. Eventually, even the holdouts are soggy with it.

Now About the Wazoos

What’s with the dresses that look as skimpy as belts? What happened to covering things?

Apparently, we now wear miniskirts so mini they whisper secrets to our underwear. Add to that, tops that are less “blouse” and a more “strategically draped shoelace,” and I have to ask: where are we going with all this?

What’s next on the Nudity Parade? Public streaking as performance art? Wait — never mind, that’s already happened in San Francisco. Also in San Fran, that once gorgeous city on a hill, I’ve seen the photos of sex taking place in the street. It does not bode well for the future unless enough of us are willing to stand firm and swear,  “No more!”

You might say, “Oh, but almost bare butts and near uncovered boobs are just fashion!” And sure, when you’re 20 and everything’s perky, you can pull off a lot. But when you’re 60-plus and your wazoo has seen more mileage than a cross-country RV, maybe reconsider the micro-mini. I don’t want to see the effect on “normal” 60+ year old women who don’t think for themselves.

Am I Just Old-Fashioned?

Yes, I am old-fashioned with a strong dose of common sense. Maybe I’m clinging to a time when public decency meant something. When class wasn’t a costume, and clothes were, at the very least, functional.

But I’m also aware that the world moves on. Still, I can’t help wondering if we’ve lost something important — like discretion, taste, and the understanding that not every body is meant for every trend.

I’m not saying we all need to wear black sacks and live like Puritans. But somewhere between “empowered” and “naked,” there has to be a middle ground. Especially for us grown women who have earned our gray hairs and should know better than to chase trends meant for someone still living with their parents.

So, Yes, I’m Judging. But lovingly.

I’m not wagging a finger. Okay, maybe I am — but it’s with affection. It isn’t about shame. It’s about style. It’s about dignity. It’s about remembering that just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

So no, I won’t judge. I’ll prefer. And my preferences say: respect personal body parts. They are yours alone. Honor them. Others don’t need to see them.

 Can I get an Amen?