She’s been here before, maybe you’ve heard.
Shhh. Not a whisper. Don’t breathe a word.
You might see glimpses here and there.
A silky whisp of her silver hair.
Black sunglasses, effortlessly chic,
Not a hint of makeup adorns her cheek.
She goes about, just like the breeze.
Doing whatever she damn well please.
Enjoying brunch all by herself.
A treat in the sun for her spirit’s health.
Mimosa for her, a latte for me,
Embracing that they are just letting us be.
Below the radar, we gratefully fly.
Not bothered by advances from loud passers-by.
Because there are thoughts in that bold, brilliant mind,
That sitting alone will help her to find.
She moves with the grace of one unobserved
And a radiant peace not eas’ly disturbed.
Of a certain age, they’d probably say.
They’d mean she was beautiful, back in the day.
Society sees women as lesser with age.
Declares they’ve no longer a place on the stage.
But they don’t know that the secret is this:
We’ve formed our own club and, in it, found bliss.
There, we are worth so much more than our looks.
Our dreams, our ideas, maybe some day, our books.
Call it what you will. No, don’t call it luck.
We’ve worked very hard to not give a f*ck.
Soliloquy on Imperfectionism 