Lately, I’ve been diving headfirst into, what I like to call, “the art of the old lady.”

As a connoisseur of fine literature, I’ve found a mighty deep disconnect between the people women used to be and who they are now.

Granted, some good things have sprung up along the way like getting the vote and, for the most part, being treated like human beings (depending on what circles you hang out in, naturally).

But there are still some hindrances that make me yearn for yesteryear – a year I didn’t even get to inhibit but do get to live vicariously through people like Anne Shirley and Jo March.

Whatever happened to women being to able to just get, well, old?

I mean old without having to worry about searing off our faces, burning off our fat, and making ourselves sacrificial lambs to a world that only wishes to consume us in a fit of smoke and ash?

So I’ve been combatting this nonsense by baking sourdough bread, taking up embroidery, and reading books that allow me to “once upon a time” myself out of these present circumstances and into a time that wasn’t perfect either, but at least I didn’t have to prove my self worth by working this feeble, dusty body of mine into an absolute tizzy.

Instead, I could have once just sat uncomfortably for days on end in a corset and numbly stared at the wall.

Okay, fine. None of this is ideal. But you know what is?

Knowing what comes after aging – the inevitable plunge into a nobler world where everything is gilt in gold, and I am honored as a child of the King.

But until then, I have a starter to feed.