I have a confession. I’m afraid I’ll lose all sense of fashion when I get old. Not that I’m any great fashionista now, but I do manage to get out of the house without embarrassing myself or my family. I think. I asked, but I’m still not sure.
It all started the other night when Hubby and I were packing some clothing for a family member who was in the hospital. He picked up a purse belonging to said family member, wrinkled his nose and asked, “Would you carry THIS?” I glanced over my shoulder and said, “Not even if I was old.” And since “old” isn’t as far off as it used to be I added, “Hey, when we get old, if I ever leave the house in something ridiculous, I want you to tell me.” His reply? A noncommittal “Mmm.”
“Mmm? What’s that mean? You will tell me, won’t you?”
“Um, probably not.”
“Because I won’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“You mean you won’t want to cross me when I’m old and cranky.”
“Well, that too.”
I went back to shuffling through underwear, when it hit me. What if I leave the house NOW in bad outfits? Surely not. Or could I already be in the Bjork zone and not know it? I didn’t want to ask, but I had to ask, and after a few seconds I worked up the nerve.
“Hey, I don’t wear anything stupid now, do I?”
“Hmm. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t THINK so? What does that mean? Either I do or I don’t. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard to appear young, but I don’t want to dress like my grandma either.”
“No, I think you’re fine. I can’t think of anything goofy you’ve worn, except that parrothead stuff you wear to parties.”
Whew. “Okay, that doesn’t count, but I really want to know if I wear something out of bounds.”
So, you see, I didn’t get a firm commitment, so I’m looking to my friends for a little help. If at any time I put something like this on my feet, I want you to steal my shoes and throw them away.
Same goes for the holiday sweatshirt
With dangly Christmas earrings.
And don’t let me wear the polyester pants with an elastic waistband if I am fully capable of buttoning my pants and have full control of my bladder.
For the love of Moses, don’t let me carry this.
And if you ever see me out in public with a bingo bag, call 911 and have me locked up because I deserve to go to jail.
You will tell me, won’t you? And do you think I should go ahead and bring that high waisted pants thing to Hubby’s attention? Or just continue to go mmmm when he asks if those brown pants fit okay?
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