Published Tuesday, September 16, 2008 2:24 PM
Updated Tuesday, September 16, 2008 2:25 PM
I don’t know what to wear. And I sure don’t have a clue about my hair.
I’m old enough to be a grandmother. (Pause while I black out briefly.) Is there a style guide somewhere to get me through this?
I know a 73-year-old woman, tall and willowy, who rocks her Gap jeans. She looks amazing. But then I see a 50-year-old with a halter top and hoop earrings and want to cry.
I‘m not here to judge, but if you’re over 40 and shopping at Forever 21 or Wet Seal, it might be time to step up and smell the Botox.
At the other end of the spectrum are the $40 tees and $200 pantsuits from Talbot’s and Nordstrom, which I refuse to buy on the grounds it would make me throw up.
Lately I’m obsessing over my low-rider pants. I’ve worn them for years, and they’re sooo comfortable. I’ve got several styles and fabrics, including jeans… and Widdle Baby hates them all.
“If you cough, everyone can see your underwear,” he claims.
That’s just silly. Who wears underwear with low-riders? (Joke, sweetie. Do that deep breathing we talked about.)
My low-riders aren’t the tarty type. Mine are Old Navy and slouch loosely on my hips, which is lovely because I hate anything around my waist. Always have. I even belt my bathrobes around the hips. (Yes, it looks stupid.)
Recently, I learned low-riders were the least of Widdle’s issues.
It all happened when I got Goodwill fever. The primary symptom: You peer into your closet and say, “Why do I still have sequined shorts from 1978?“
Widdle offered to help with the sorting, and we were making good time. Cheesy leopard skirt (where did I wear this??), toss. Filmy flapper-style tunic, toss. Too-tight cocktail dress, toss. Hideous baby doll top, toss.
Suddenly I realized Widdle was discarding more than fashion disasters. He was culling every dress/skirt that didn’t reach my ankles.
I opened my mouth to ask when he became Amish. Then I remembered the old adage “pick your battles wisely.” I sucked my teeth and held my tongue.
But then he tossed my favorite little black dress, a smooth-fitting, above-the-knee tank style. I get compliments every time I wear it.
I grabbed that LBD and faced Widdle.
“I love this,” I said firmly. “I wore it when we were dating.”
“I remember,” he said calmly. “It’s sexy.“
I beamed. “Thanks! I’m keeping it.”
“Please don’t,” he said.
“Why?”
“You’re my wife now,“ he said. “I don’t want men looking at my wife and thinking what I thought when you wore that dress.”
I stared at him, stupefied by this bombshell. Finally I blurted, “Are you the same guy I married in Las Vegas?”
He smiled….
The upshot, dear reader, is this: The dress is gone. Not because Widdle demanded it--the opposite, in fact. He hasn’t demanded anything since the day we met. He asked me, with love and grace. Guess what? It’s hard to refuse a reasonable man.
I just hope he never says, “Honey, act your age.” Then we’d have a problem.
Julie R. Smith, who has a bikini Widdle doesn’t know about, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.