My husband is staring at me in astonishment. “Are you actually carrying that around?”

“Of course.” I cocked a hip, trying to look extra cool as I heaved my new orange Stanley cup off the counter.

If you don’t know what a Stanley cup is, you probably aren’t hanging around people in their twenties who are all toting around 40-ounce metal mugs with straws like they’re about to trudge across the Sahara.

Those who swear by Stanleys believe you should drink two full Stanley cups of water per day. To be fair, the National Academies of Science, Engineering, and Medicine say men should drink 125 oz. of liquid daily, and women should be downing 91 oz. But I grew up during a time when we never drank water. Sure, we might sip it from a trickling fountain at school, but we did sports and watched TV, partied, and joined protest marches on Washington with nary a water bottle in sight, never mind a manly Stanley mug. And guess what? We survived—even though we never put protein powder in our smoothies, either.

But that’s not the point. The real question on my mind is whether I’m cool enough to carry the Stanley in public. Because guess what? I, too, am now addicted to the Stanley. Maybe it’s because my son gave it to me and I love him. Or maybe it’s because the color orange makes me happy, or because lifting a Stanley all day means I feel justified skipping the dumbells at the gym. Whatever the reason, I’m carrying my Stanley everywhere: to my office, out to the screen porch, in my car. I just haven’t yet dared let anyone see me do it.

Here’s the thing. This winter, I bought a warm jacket on sale that happens to be bright teal with flowers, and everywhere I went, people would say, “I love you in that jacket!” or, “That’s an adorable coat.”

Slowly, it’s dawning on me that I am at the “adorable” stage of womanhood. Not cute, as in girlish, and not pretty or beautiful or elegant, as in being a good-looking woman, but adorable, aka, nonthreatening.

I’ve heard lots of women talk about feeling invisible once they cross a certain age threshold, but I haven’t heard anybody complain about being called “adorable,” so I started asking around.

“Oh, God yes,” said one friend.

“Absolutely,” said another, adding, “The only thing worse than being called adorable is when they call you ‘spry.’”

True. On the other hand, why not embrace the possibilities?

Recently I had a complete loss of sanity in a clothing store and bought a pair of black denim overalls that make me look like a toddler, and my rainhat has a lining of brightly-colored birds. I also own a bunch of striped headbands for running that made my brother say I look like Richard Simmons. Can a sparkly gold romper be far behind?

“Eccentric lady writer,” I told my husband as I headed out to my office with my Stanley cup and two dogs in tow. “That’s the look I’m going for now.”

It’s a good look, right? After all, I’m one of the lucky ones, having reached an age of grace where I can relax and be exactly who I am, navigating the world in a way that gives me joy.

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