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Warning
by Jenny Joseph

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple."

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I first read this poem, when my friend Heather posted it on her blog, writing her own variation. Since then, the idea has inspired us so much, that my friend Brit and I have done our best to write our own applicable variations, of the ways we wish we one day have the courage to be, devoid societal or family obligations. :) Here's mine:

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Warning
by Trina Yeo

When I am an old woman,
I’ll stop brushing my hair for months
and let it air dry slowly in the summer wind,
brown and tangled from too
many afternoons spent in the sun.
I shall spend my allowance on bread and smelly cheese,
white wine, cake, scarves, and new guitars,
and say we’ve no money for TV.
I shall stain my pants with the green of the grass
in the park,
where I’ve spent too long staring at the clouds.
I'll dance, wild and unapologetic,
for friends and strangers,
to make up for the insecurity of my youth.
I'll learn to play new songs
from bands on the street.
And bake tarts with the berries
I picked from inside the neighbor's yard.

I can wear oversized scarves that hide my belly fat,
and gaudy earrings to dress up my unkempt hair.
And eat hot dogs from street vendors for weeks.

But for now, I must show up to work right on time,
attend class, pay the bills, meet all of my deadlines;
cross my legs politely in the pews of the church,
so as not to offend my friends or professors.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked or surprised.
When suddenly, I am old, and never brush my hair.