I had a job where they asked me, why I thought I still had style at my age. After unplugging my oxygen tank and parking my walker said, “Because I’m still breathing?”
I did ponder this though, once my ego settled down. There there, have an Oreo sweetie, you’ll feel better.
My mother was very chic until one day, mysteriously disappeared inside an elastic waistband, like her style went on the lam.
My late friend Jackie, quite a bit older than I was, and one of the chicest women ever, said, “She got tired Susannah. It’s exhausting wiggling into a suit, holding your stomach in like a fat cadet.” (she was very funny)
It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear, yet it made sense.
But I remember my pal Mimi, tooling through her 80s in her Chanel jacket she’d wear over trim Talbot’s slacks, shiny loafers with braided tassels, gold posts gleaming from her ears. See, that’s how I want to go out, kicking and screaming, clutching the latest Brooks Brothers catalog making sure I didn’t miss anything.
My friend Lisa’s mother is even older than Mimi was, and she blows the doors off the place when she dresses to go out.
Age shouldn’t be an excuse to look like you’ve given up, surrendered to, oh what’s the use, so you can defend that paunch that no longer fits inside your blouse.
So, why do I think I still have style in my twilight years?
Because, despite wrinkles and a hearing aid named Max, I can still turn that occasional head, that’s why, so you can just…
You monkey you. 🙂