Member-only story
Why I’m Fifty and Done With Conservative
I may be a mature woman, but I’m not a dead one.
I’m fifty-two. My daughter is graduating in May, and so on my Saturday trips with my mother and fifty-one-year-old sister, I peruse the racks. I want the perfect dress to make me feel beautiful. Something that hugs my curves and makes the most of the figure I’ve worked so hard to maintain.
With each dress I pick, a long sigh accompanies my mother and sister’s responses. “That dress is for a sixteen-year-old. Dress your age. You’re not twenty anymore.”
They then proceed to show me the “racks” where the “old gals” shop. Big floral prints with covered arms, polyester sleeves, and maybe a ruffle or two skimming the tea-length dress they’ve decided is age-appropriate.
For a moment, I feel embarrassed. Am I trying to relive my youth by wearing a sun dress with a sweetheart neckline that ends at the bottom of my thighs? People wear shorts, right? They’re the same length, but somehow my choice of dress is different — too “in your face.” Too “Look at me, I’m beautiful.”
I think of their words and, for a small moment, decide to scour the racks for a “happy medium.” Something that will satisfy their need to see me “look my age” and still make me feel beautiful.
