Trudging Toward Old Age?

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter, husband and I went to visit my mother-in-law.

She had selected a newish restaurant for lunch, some kind of chain I think. Sweetwater something? Sweet Grass Grille? I don't recall.

We are seated, and before we receive the menus, I know what is going to happen. Music is playing. Some kind of 80's pop perhaps. It's a bit too loud for a mostly empty room.

Now, we are all just a bit touchy. My father-in-law had very recently died, and the rest of us are trying to go about our business of being a family and supporting each other. My mother-in-law makes a wincing face. My husband knows it's about the music. He gets up to ask the hostess if it can be turned down.

Upon his return he reports: "I told them that this is a restaurant not a disco and they need to turn that music down."

Good God. The man is not yet 50, yet he speaks as if he is waving around a cane. What the hell is he going to be like when he's 60?

Several minutes later, the manager comes over. It is a brisk day in northern Virginia, but he makes it look like it's a sweltering afternoon in Las Vegas. He informs us that the music will be turned down. And changed over to Country. I swear I saw him smirk when he said that. Frankly, I'd rather someone spit into my soup.

I guess this is what the long (or for some of us, not so long) trudge toward decrepitude looks like.

I don't know about my old man, but I'm thinking I might just like a disco.

For about five minutes.

If you can test drive a car . . .

then why can't you test drive a skirt?

My daughter and I did a little clothes shopping while we were vacationing in Portland, OR. We have to do our clothes shopping online or far from home, because to shop near our home requires that all of our clothing be blue and white and have "Penn State" silkscreened, stamped, or appliqued on each item.

We stop in a lovely, well-tended boutique. My daughter picks out a slightly-above-the-knee, floaty, jersey skirt and informs me that I must try it on. Apparently, with one eye shut and using my dyslexic eye, I confirm that the price is right. I take two other items and my daughter into the dressing room with me. The clerk brings us a bottle of sparkling water and is the epitome of the perfect fitting room attendant.

The skirt is awesome. Clingy. But not too clingy. Lightweight. A dream floating over my kneecaps. Ahhhhhhh. Somehow completely (in my mind) hiding the middle-age tummy that has become an owner-occupant. The perfect skirt. The skirt of my dreams. And at such a reasonable price. I feel so good purchasing from a local designer and something made in this country (hopefully not some sweatshop on a U.S. "owned" island). We quaff the Perrier and declare I shall purchase the skirt.

I open my good eye and read the price again. Shit! Feeling buoyed by the sparking water, the attentive clerk, and the memory of my happy thighs in the skirt, I decide to purchase it anyway. I mean, it IS perfect. I tried it on and sat in it and swirled in it and bent over in it and nothing bad happened.

Until the first day I wore it. After flying thousands of miles home.

It was a breezy day . . .

I felt confident that I looked AMAZING in my AWESOME skirt. My head was high. My stride was long and sturdy. I felt liberated.

Really liberated.

I thought that the passersby were admiring the new me in my glorious skirt.

It wasn't the skirt they were looking at. No. Every one and all were getting an eyeful of untanned thighs and ancient underwear.

I firmly clutched my skirt all the way back to the car.

The hubby says the skirt looks damn good on me. He makes small guttural animal noises when I wear it. I kind of like that. So now I stride confidently through the house in my skirt, head held high. Aint no wind in the house.

In the future, when I feel the need to purchase a new skirt, I'm going to take a small fan into the dressing room with me. If I'm asked if I would like a sparkling water, I'll decline. Instead I'll ask where the electrical outlet is.