On Getting Older: Let Us Meander

Note:  I will never say on getting old.  Why face the truth?

So what is the essential question for women on getting older.  Quite naturally, pun intended, it’s to dye or not to dye—as Hamlet might have put it, if he were a woman.

I have dyed my hair for—oh, I really can’t remember when I started.  I was born mousey brown, very straight, very fine hair, meaning that there was no curl whatsoever and it was very hard to create one.  (At this point I’m going to mention the incredibly expensive Dyson hair dryer because it has worked miracles on my straight hair.).

Mousy brown began not to cut it as I grew older, so I started going blond, then blonder, until I found for some reason I really didn’t need to dye my hair all that often. At first four times a year, while now I do it twice if that.

I have been blessed with the same hair genes as my Aunt Rosalyn, who had pure white hair, but I’m too young to look angelic, so I add a hint of blond. A year or so ago I decided I wanted to go pink.  Loved it, but I think that dye was physically harmful, so I stopped.

I’ve stopped a lot of things.  Like in this pandemic I don’t wear a bra.  How close to heaven can one get!  Yes, my tits drag themselves down to my waistline, but I wear big shirts; and, let’s face it, at my age, who’s looking.

How times change, foundation-wise.  And how the word “foundation” itself has changed.  Now it could mean one’s makeup base.  Or a charity.  Before it meant—girdles. When I married, I still had peasant hips; but I weighed one hundred eleven pounds.  Yet, on my wedding day I wore a girdle. Attached to the girdle with snaps were nylons with seams.  What was I thinking?  Now people wear Spanks.  I tried them once.  I felt like an Italian sausage in its casing.  Money wasted.

My mother wore a one-piece girdle-bra combo every day of her life with garter snaps and nylons.  The only surrender she made to modern times was to wear nylons without seams.  She never wore pantyhose, she didn’t even have a pair of slacks.  She was a great one for throwing parties at Christmas, and I remember her confiding with shock that she didn’t think the boss’s wife was wearing a girdle.  Quelle disgrace!  

My mother lived to 102, not happily, I might add.  She had a fall and after that, the girdle was out.  But every day her caretaker would dress her in a skirt, a blouse and a sweater, where she would put Kleenex up the sleeves for emergency use.  Unfortunately, for her sartorial splendor, she wore socks and slippers.  When she was sensate and I would visit, I suggested that I take her out for a stroll around the neighborhood.  By that time she was in a wheelchair and was shocked that I would even suggest such a thing.  “I don’t want people to see me like this,” she said to me.

Yes, insane. Like people would be staring out their windows, waiting for her appearance.  Her misguided pride kept her a prisoner in her own home for the rest of her very long life.

We can learn from our parents, can’t we?  And I certainly learned from my mother that I will not be stuck in my house alone with no one to talk to. All her children lived far away; she never wanted to leave her precious house; and her caretakers were busy talking on their cells to relatives overseas.

There used to be all that talk about not wanting to be discarded in a nursing home.  But there are other choices now, assisted living, memory care, people, activities, life—at least what you can make of it.  Children?  Would I live with my children?  Ah—NO!!!!!  Hey, kids, you’re safe.

But back to our sartorial discussion.  As you might have cottoned to, I don’t spend a lot of time coordinating my outfits for my many public appearances—in the grocery stores.  Jeans, yes, even at my age, a sweater on top, sneakers, light makeup—and of course a mask.  Do I look fashionable?  No.  My daughter tends to be horrified by my clothing selections.  But, hey, we each make our own choices.

I used to be more cognizant of my public persona.  That was before I discovered sweatpants.  Therein lies my downfall.  Previously, I was wearing zippered jeans.  Zippered jeans:  They’re like a girdle, don’t you think?  Sweatpants leave room for expansion, which I did.  And let’s not talk about the weight menopause puts on, at least for some of us.  I would call myself pleasantly plump.  Or just plump.  I don’t regret it.  I have seen older women who are stick figures and proud of it.  These women also tend to be tanned.  Let’s face it.  They look mummified.  At our age, we need flesh on the bone.  Or at my age, I suppose I should put it.

I think I’m happier now that I’m older.  Hopefully, the only trauma ahead is my appointment in Samarra.  I have three wonderful children (I put this in in case they read this), I have friends, and I have autonomy.  Of course, there’s always a caveat.  Who knows what’s going to happen?  Right?  But until then I’ll chug along in my elastic waist jeans and enjoy life while I can.