*Inspired by last week’s Man Repeller’s writers club prompt*
Movie tickets are discounted, theres always an excuse for eating lunch early and the limitations of the fashion rules cease to exists. Someones always offering you a chair, worried that you may be in need of a cardigan and willing to adjust the thermostat for your comfort. I refuse to believe my prime was at 18 in a tight bandage dress carrying a fake ID. My dormant clothes person is thriving at 80.
I always wanted to wear silk in my early twenties, but I couldn’t afford the drycleaning. Now I wear Escada. I always mix my metals, pair navy with black, and wear denim on denim (even during off seasons.) When I take walks on the beach, I wear white linen Calypso St. Barth clothing. When I do speaking events, I wear tweed St. John skirt suits.
My hair is experiencing its long awaited moment. I directed my stylist to cut it in a way that permits me to have a faux hawk. I dyed it silver, which seemed more controlled than letting myself go grey. I don’t miss brushing my hair. My blush is brighter than ever and my mascara clumpy and over-applied.
My sunglasses cover most of my face, usually tortoise shell, often cat-eyed. I wear Elie Saab couture gowns to my doctors appointments and floor length fur coats to the grocery store. I have a diamond ring on every finger, but lost my orthopedic shoe virginity a long time ago.
I have so many leather capes and velvet embellished dresses that my grandkids speculate I might be a witch. I named my corgi Rhiannon. I wear my Birkin to bingo and go to church for the coffee hour gossip. I’m atrocious at knitting but excellent at sudoku.
I drive an alarmingly bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle. I believe cheetah print is always relevant and wear Birkenstocks no matter what you fashion people say. I hum show tunes and watch Days of Our Lives. My shoulders are largely-padded and I wear multiple strands of pearls casually. I was personally responsible for the revival of velour sweatsuits.
I’m somewhere in between utterly insane and a delightful sensation. I will make a conscious effort to remove any stray facial hair, but my manicure will be historically chipped. I snack on craisins and when I drop them in the couch cushions I don’t fish them out. All the while I’m draped in feather boas, flirting with my son-in-law, and throwing back martinis. Life is too short to remember anyone’s name.
(featured image from advancedstyle.blogspot.com)
