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 80th 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.