The pile on the closet floor

This post is not for the faint of heart. It is about that awful moment of reckoning, typically occurring as you face your closet, when you realize that everything has started to go irretrievably south.

Advancing age is not without its blessings, but appearance isn’t one of them. We droop. In multiple places. Even if our weight is reasonable and we exercise zealously, we droop.

It isn’t as much about weight (though it certainly can be) as it is about shape. My godmother, who is a pretty spiffy 94, petite, erect, and trim, has become downright phobic about clothes shopping because nothing fits her. That’s crazy, but I get it. Clothes shopping isn’t fun any more, and I’m a LOT younger than she is, as she graciously reminds me with some frequency.

I truly believe that I’ve become more patient and mellow with each passing year, but neither quality is likely to manifest when I’m trying to find something to wear. I’m recalling my old friend Cathy, in the comic strip of the same name. I couldn’t’ find the strip online, but I have a very vivid recollection of Cathy in a multi-mirrored dressing room, throwing a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old, shrieking and jumping up and down feverishly on the pile of rejected bathing suits she’s hurled to the floor.

I can relate. Cathy is all of us. Just ask me how many times I change clothes when I’m going out—to church, to a work appointment, to dinner, or—God forbid—to a high school reunion.

It’s almost worse when I’m forced to shop for something new. Although I adore dresses, I’ve pretty much given them up because what fits above the waist definitely does not fit below. I’ve tried A-lines and felt like one of those old-fashioned clothes pin bags: narrow at the top and wide at the bottom. [Does anyone remember clothespin bags? Or clothespins? Probably not.] I hold no hope of ever finding a dress I like that doesn’t require more than its weight in gold in alterations… and a capable tailor to do them, which seems like another thing of the past, at least in my neighborhood.

This sorry state of affairs, for all intents and purposes, leaves me pretty much up the creek (you know which one) without a paddle.

Yet I know there must be designers out there in the ether who know how to dress a woman who is not as lithe and willowy as she once was, in something that has neither elastic nor Velcro®, actually has a shape, and is definitely NOT Boho. Been there, done that, don’t want the T-shirt.

If that designer is YOU, hit me up, and let’s talk.

 

 

 

 

 

Stepping it up

Nobody talks about just going for a walk any more. Now, we talk about steps.

Early this afternoon, I set up the Fitbit my son gave me for my birthday, per my request. This after saying that I would NEVER, under any circumstances, wear “one of those things” that turn steps, and all that other stuff, like drinking water and how long you stand or sit, into a veritable obsession. Yes, I ate my words.

What pushed me over the edge was that the kids gave Hubby a Fitbit for Christmas, and he took to it like the proverbial duck to water. Before long, he was announcing the receipt of badges with silly names not for meeting the goals he’d set, but for far exceeding them. Months later, competitive fellow that he is, he’s still setting that gizmo on fire. I clearly had to “step” up to the plate. Why should he get all the attention?

I’d been using my phone to track steps for several years, but it’s a pain to carry the phone with you constantly, and beyond annoying if you forget it and then don’t get credit for your efforts. The last straw was the day I left the phone in my purse, put the purse in the grocery cart, then spent an hour tramping up and down the supermarket aisles, only to discover later that my phone was totally oblivious. It could almost hear it saying, “Sure, you walked 7,000 steps today. Where’s the proof?”

That’s when I crossed over and asked for the Fitbit. I’m happy to report that I exceeded my admittedly modest goal of 4000 steps today. I know that’s not nearly good enough. We’ll see.

 

Photo: My cousin Liz getting her steps in on Old Orchard Beach, ME.