At seventy-five, you should accept your “golden years,” slow down, and, as they say, “act your age.”

However, who defines what it means to act your age? It all comes down to doing what brings you joy and a sense of aliveness, in my opinion.

That’s red lipstick for me.

Since I can remember, I have worn it; it is fiery, brazen, and unapologetic, representing the energy I have carried with me throughout the years.

However, that doesn’t seem to be accepted anymore.

At least that’s what my son and his spouse say.I was preparing for a family meal yesterday; it was not going to be like the ones I usually looked forward to.

As I meticulously applied my preferred red lipstick shade, “Ruby Flame,” in my bedroom, my son Stephen suddenly poked his head in.

“Mom, you look like a desperate old clown trying to cling to your youth,” he hissed, interrupting my impression that he was there to check on me or even to give me a praise. It’s awkward. You are not required to do it.He grinned when he said it, as though it were a lighthearted joke. However, I was aware of this. He meant it. My heart fell. I was astounded by his remarks and looked at him, thinking he would understand how cruel they were. However, he remained motionless as he waited for me to remove the lipstick and a portion of my identity.Then, just when he thought things couldn’t get much worse, his wife Sarah came next to him, grinning smugly. She remarked, her voice brimming with disdain, “Oh, I agree with Steph.” “Older folks shouldn’t wear red lipstick. You should, in my opinion, continue doing what other individuals your age are doing.My heart raced. Who was she to tell me what I was allowed to wear and what wasn’t? And who exactly did she think I ought to emulate among these “other people”? I’ve never been one to go with the flow, and this time I wasn’t going to start.I asked her directly, “Honey, why don’t you mind your own business?” without skipping a beat. Her expression was so precious. She was surprised since she didn’t think I would defend myself. She hastily took a step back and forced a flimsy grin to hide her humiliation. “I apologize, Edith,” she whispered. “We simply don’t want you to have a clown’s appearance.”Stupid? Think of the audacity! Between my ferocious gaze and his wife’s tense giggle, my son was perplexed. His flippant, “Okay, Mom, enjoy the circus,” attempt to diffuse the situation simply made me feel more enraged. Sarah laughed and said, “Come on, Steph, let’s not miss the circus,” before turning to leave me standing by myself and feeling upset.I was wounded for a good five minutes. I was thinking about myself as I stood there, gazing at my mirror. Was crimson lipstick really out of my price range? Should I follow their model of the ideal appearance for a woman my age? I felt the melancholy seeping into my chest and becoming like a heavy stone. Then again, something changed. That melancholy gave way to fury. No, I refused to allow them to control my life’s course. I refused to allow them to take away the characteristics that defined who I was. They were in for more if they believed they could intimidate me into submitting. I was going to impart to them a knowledge that would stick with them. I kept quiet for the following few days. Not even my friends at our monthly bridge game knew about the incident. But I was planning inside. My pride had been hurt by Stephen and Sarah, and I was not going to overlook that.I had to make an impression on them—something audacious and clear that would demonstrate to them that I was still the vivacious lady I had always been and that I was not going to back down. It occurred to me that the yearly block party in the neighborhood was in just one week. Everybody dressed up, there was a talent show, and this year there was even going to be a little parade down the block, so it was usually a big affair. It was the ideal chance for me to get my message across. Over the following three days, I gathered everything I required. I collected some things from the craft store and even dug out an old outfit from the back of my wardrobe on my few trips there. I was prepared by the time the block party day finally came.It was a bright day as I walked down the street toward the block party. Already there, mixing with the neighbors, I could see Stephen and Sarah, totally oblivious to what was about to unfold. As I walked up to them, I had to bite back a smile. “You made it, mom!” I walked over and Stephen yelled out to me. But then he looked at me and his eyes grew wide. I had on a bright red dress that perfectly accentuated my curves, and a wide-brimmed red hat with a big feather perched on my head.The highlight of the show, though, was my makeup. I had gone all out, wearing bright blush and strong eyeliner in addition to red lipstick, of course. I had the entire appearance of a grand dame—a lady who was unafraid to draw attention to herself. Sarah was in complete shock. With a tone that blended horror and bewilderment, she questioned, “Edith, what on earth are you wearing?”I gave a charming smile. Oh, nothing special, just a little project I put together. You know, I kind of expected myself to adopt that “clown” expression you described. < Stephen appeared to wish he could just go under the earth. “Mom, this is it.” “Excellent?” I completed the task for him. “Why, my dear, thank you.” The parade was underway before they had a chance to say anything more. The other competitors were lined up at the front, and I strode over to join them. I hadn’t disclosed to anyone that I had signed up to be the parade’s grand marshal. I waved to the