Don’t Call Me Cute or Adorable Just Because I’m Old(ER) — And Terminally Cute

I’ve railed against being called cute all my life. Hard to believe, when you see photos of me growing up. See the link below for some of those.

My mother dressed us in frills and ribbons, with hair curled in sausage rolls, or tight ponytails with bows. We had lacy anklet socks, scratchy petticoats, and frilly dresses.

Yeah, we were cute.

I don’t remember when I rebelled against cuteness, but even in my hippie years, mom made our clothes, carefully cutting out V shapes in our jeans to add wedges of flowered material. She made us vinyl yellow mini-skirts with vivid pink and green flowers. We might have been rebellious, but by god, she made sure we were still cute as hell.

When I divorced at 26, I entered the world of dating, and also acquired a posse of women friends. We called ourselves a Smorgasbord. Two were tall, two were medium height, and I was short. One was an Amazonian, Nordic blonde beauty. We were a mixture of blonde, brown, and reddish haired lovelies. They had longer hair, and mine was short and curly.

One night we were all at a club, where I overheard a guy saying to another guy,

“I like the cute, little one.”

You guessed it. That was me. And I was not flattered. I wanted to be beautiful, not cute. I would have sold my soul to be taller.

In my twenties and thirties, I became a fashionista. Making good money in advertising meant I could afford expensive and designer clothes. I strove for elegance, and yet somehow still remained “cute” in some people’s minds. To men and older women, specifically. Older women wanted to protect me, and men wanted…you know.

A male friend and colleague made my day, though, when he introduced me as,

“This is Carol, the cute little blonde with the stiletto up her sleeve.”

He meant a shiv or switchblade, not a stiletto heel like the ones on my feet. It’s my favorite description of myself to this day.

Given that, you can see why “adorable” is not an adjective I would ever accept. I have two black belts in Aikido. And that stiletto up my sleeve, even though I can’t wear stiletto heels anymore.

When a former male classmate asked my seven-year-old son at a class reunion,

“Blake, who’s the toughest guy in this room?”

Blake answered, with no hesitation,

“My Mom.”

High praise from my sweet boy child. After all, he took Aikido with me. He saw what I could do.

Remember, to the people I went to school with, I was the girl in frilly girly or cute hippie clothes, with long hair often permed to be curly. I didn’t play sports. I was the girly girl. For me to come back thirty years later with a second degree Black Belt was quite the surprise to them.

He meant a shiv or switchblade, not a stiletto heel like the ones on my feet. It’s my favorite description of myself to this day.

These were my influences

My precious grandmother, and my diminutive great-grandmother were cute in their old age. They were also kind and nurturing. My mother, was gorgeous and larger-than-life. She might have been cute as a child, but she was an impressive and beautiful woman.

All three overcame struggles most of us modern women will never face. I have both influences, but I tend toward my mother’s example, even if I did give up the frilly stuff as soon as I could.

Other examples I’ve followed are a woman in my hometown who was formidable, while being generous. Giving me and my sisters books from her collection. Donating the remainder of her extensive book collection, and ultimately her mansion-sized home, to the town for a library.

She was also little and cute, but nobody dared call her that.

Another was an elderly doctor. She became a doctor when men dominated the field. She was single when I knew her, possible widowed or divorced, or maybe never married. She was crotchety and walked with a large cane. I don’t aspire to crotchety, but I do intend to keep on contributing to society, and staying involved in my community as she did.

Nobody would have dared call her, or the person who created our town library, or my mother, adorable. They were and I am, formidable, strong, caring, involved, fulfilled, and self-actualizing. Never adorable.

On the other hand, I’ll always be the cute little blonde with the stiletto up her sleeve. And I’m okay with that.

. . .

Shout out to Rachel A Fefer , who is also not and never will be, adorable. Also to her 94-year-old mother for the same reason.