The Date Dress

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A couple years ago, one of my daughters was getting rid of a dress that I liked, so I tried it on. It was awfully cute, but it was not a style I usually wore. I showed it to my girls. “What do you think? Can I get away with wearing this? Does it look okay on me? Do I look good in it?”

Their eyes widened a bit. “Oh, yeah – you look great, mom. But . . . that’s not a work dress for you. Or a church dress.

“That’s a DATE dress.”

OHHH. Well, dang. Thanks. I’ll just wait for one of those.

I am so not a clothes person. I have no sense at all of what’s fashionable or stylish – I’m not always sure what looks good on me – and Lord knows I HATE shopping. I’m really desperately in need of a few clothing items right now (a pair of jeans, some exercise shorts, probably another pair of good walking shoes), but I cannot make myself find time to accomplish such a dreaded task. Courtney, who apparently LOVES to shop, has offered to go with me, bless her. I’m not sure she knows what she would be getting into.

One of my friends in a past life had a tendency to dress like her teenage kids. And she was my age. I mean, she had the figure to pull it off, I suppose, but even my daughters commented that it was a little weird. So, part of me might be afraid of looking like I’m unaware of my age.

But maybe another part of me doesn’t want to admit my age. Y’all, I turned 55 about a month ago. For years, I had no real problem embracing my age number. One of the advantages of all the moves we made in my adult years is that I feel like I’ve lived several lives in these decades, and that was a good thing. I happily felt 40. And 45. And even 50.

But 55 is hitting me harder. My mother was 45 when she gave birth to me (yeah, I know – crazy, right?), and when I remember her at 55, she looked, dressed, and acted much older than I feel. I am not ready to be that old woman. I am NOT that old woman. Right? No. No, I am not.

But that doesn’t mean I should try to look like a 30-year-old, either.

And another frustrating thing: I can’t wear that date dress right now anyway because at the moment, I have a belly pooch that would completely distract any potential date from the positive aspects of that dress on my body. It’s been a stressful couple months starting school this year. I’ve not been controlling my diet well – and it shows. And I’m not exactly beating myself up for that; I can give myself grace and know I’ll get those pounds off again one of these days. But I’m also not going to highlight the current state of my belly for the world.

I’m frustrated with myself. Not because of my appearance, but because of my concern about my appearance. This is ME. I’m 55 years old, I have gray hair growing in, and I’ve got wrinkles and fat cells in a variety of places on my body. I don’t have a problem with any of this . . . honestly, I don’t . . . why do I care that anyone else might?

And who do I blame for this ambivalence I feel? A youth-obsessed society? The fault-finders in my personal history who made me afraid of others’ opinions? My own self-conscious, perfectionist ego?

It seems like I’ve been writing about this a lot this year – coming to peace with how I look. I don’t want y’all to be concerned about me here. I’m not sitting around every day obsessed with my appearance and what others think of me. But for some reason, it’s often there in my head when I sit down to write . . .

Why? I don’t know. Maybe there’s someone else out there who needs to hear it. Love your grays and your pooches, friends. YOU are so much more. 

But yeah . . . I am looking forward to showing off that date dress one of these days.

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