She was maybe thirty-five, cute as a button. Trying on a pair of overalls in the dressing room of a department store and asks me, “Is this too kid-ish for me?”
It was a joke, right? That’s not anti-aging, it’s pro-aging. Is there some cutoff point when you have to start dressing according to your age? What in God’s name would that look like, after 55?
- House dresses with enough kleenex in the pockets to service an entire second grade class with the flu
- Bedroom slippers that flop so loud dogs bark
- Plastic purses full of more stuff than the Las Vegas city dump
- Weird plaids that make you disappear in most landscapes
- For women, pants beneath their bellies
- For men, pants beneath their armpits
- Strange shades of pink that startle the dead
- Floral patterns that make children cry
- Shapeless clothing into which you could fit yourself, six children, fifteen car bombs or three cases of cheap whiskey.
The first person that tries to put me in a mumu will die painfully. I still