My mother always looked terrific.  She had impeccable taste in clothes, an enviable figure and a thick head of gently curling silver hair.  She looked stunning at her 80^th birthday party in a black designer knit skirt and top with a blue appliquéd design.  You could take her anywhere.

I’m lucky to resemble Mother in many ways.  But she did have a gene that seems to have skipped her daughter’s generation, i.e., the shopping gene.

Don’t get me wrong.  I like to look nice.  I dress professionally at work.  I buy classic clothing and wear it for a long time.  But I never liked shopping and at seventy-five, I hate it.

It seems that my options are becoming fewer and fewer.  Since I got my new knee six years ago, I rarely wear heels.  So dresses are not a good option except in the colder months when high (but flat) boots work.  My upper arms are finely toned, but my neck and cleavage zone, not-so-good.

I’m thinking about this now because I have two rather dressy events coming up, and I’ve already returned empty-handed from two shopping expeditions.

I may have to resurrect a couple of outfits tucked away in the guest room closet.  These events are not about me, and probably no one cares what I wear.

The problem is that Mother would be disappointed.