Autumn of My Life

Once upon a time, I knew where to shop. I enjoyed days of shopping with friends, trying on outfits and finding that perfect fit. The junior section was for my daughter, the women’s department was for me, and the polyester suits and dresses were for the church ladies. Everything made sense. And then I entered my 60’s and fashion retail turned on me like a broken underwire bra.

These days, walking into a clothing store is like entering a multi-generational identity crisis.

On one side, we’ve got the Holey Jean Horde; jeans that cost $89.95 and already look like you lost a fight with a cheese grater. I personally like my holey jeans, but please price them for my budget. Or give them to me to wear out for you and you can resell them!

On the other side? A wall of bedazzled polyester tunics with sleeves that could double as wings in a Cirque du Soleil performance. Who decided women our age only want to wear shades of “mauve mystery” and “dusty turquoise dream”? The new styles for my age are so set on covering the bulge in our mid-section, that they forget that we want to look like we have some shape (even if it is round).

And right in the middle; T-shirts with glittery sayings like “Fierce Over 50!” or a butterfly that screams, “I’m fun but fragile!” I don’t want rhinestones announcing my age. I want clothes that make me feel like me, only with better lighting and possibly a SnapChat filter.

Let’s not even talk about sizing. One department labels me a “Misses Medium,” another decides I’m “Petite Plus with a touch of denial.” Honestly, I don’t know whether to head to Athleta or the garden section at Home Depot.

And then there’s the shoes.

Oh, sweet orthopedic betrayal.

Once upon a time, I could run around in heels so high they gave me altitude sickness. Now? If a shoe doesn’t have arch support, memory foam, and a prayer of stability, I’m not risking it. I need shoes that can get me through a grocery run, stopping at a garage sale and a conversation about bunions.

Don’t get me wrong. I still want to feel cute. But apparently, shoe designers think we only come in two moods:

  1.  “Let’s salsa dance all night”
  2.  “Let’s get fitted for a medical boot”

Where’s the in-between? A sandal that says, “I’m flirty, but I also drove here in a my Ford Edge  and carry my own Advil.”

So… where does that leave us?

Somewhere between Forever 21 and Coldwater Creek, there’s got to be a rack of clothes and shoes for women who:

  *   Still want to look good
  *   Still want to feel like ourselves
  *   Still want fabric that breathes and shoes that don’t scream “plantar fasciitis”

I’m not asking for miracles. I just want a pair of jeans that flatter my figure, a blouse that isn’t trimmed in glitter, and a pair of shoes that won’t make me ice my feet after brunch.

Until then, I’ll be in the dressing room, squinting at the label, checking the stretch, slipping off my sensible sneakers and praying the lighting is forgiving.