Deluged with Invitations

Now that I am on the A (for Aged) List, not a day goes by without a thrilling invitation.  Why just today I received not one, but two, from Hebrew Senior Life, a nearby organization which offers programs and services to, you guessed it, live seniors. 

I was just bowled over by the fact that they are a "Harvard Medical School Affiliate," because it is heartening to know that there are professional geriatricians behind the exciting opportunities on offer.

The first invite was rather pedestrian:  visit the website, download an  ebook, put your name and contact info on a sucker list for further importunings.  Well, they didn't exactly say the third thing, but I am old!  I didn't just fall off the marketing cabbage cart!  My eyesight may be dimming, but I can see what they are up to! 

But, by gorry, (geezer-speak for "by god") it is hard to resist the title: ReAge Your Personal Health: A Wellness Guide for Older Adults. ReAge? You mean I have to do this all over again? Wonder what little communications major came up with that bit of gobbledy-gook (geezer-speak for "bullshit).

The second invite was much more exciting: The Spring 2013 College of Retirement Living(SM), A Celebration of Aging in Words & Images.  My college was never like this. Oh, wait, it was the sixties, the color schemes were similar.

Judging by the cover photo you celebrate by slapping on some red lipstick and dressing up in an enormous hat and oversized sunglasses.

No wonder.  Session 1 is Advanced Style with Ari Seth Cohen, a lovely young photojournalist who is the Sartorialist of the Bubbie Set.  I have looked at his blog a couple of times and as a woman with a closet so full of gray, black, and dark brown that I need a miner's headlamp to tell the trousers from the tee shirts, I find it rather disturbing.

 Ari Seth Cohen's idea of photo-worthy elder fashionistas goes something like this:

Superheroines of the Fashion Revolution.

and this:

Florida, here I come.

All right, they don't all look like that, but even the more, uh, subdued, look like Joan Collins on acid.

Now, where did I put that paisley?

Enough, go visit his blog, but be sure to put on your oversized sunglasses, because if you don't,  your eyeballs will explode. Even better, put on your oversized sunglasses, your red lipstick, and every technicolor fashion mistake you have lurking in those boxes that have never made it to Goodwill, and meet him in person. On May 8. I'd love to include a link, but I couldn't find the event on-line.  Maybe you have to be on the A for Alter Cocker (Yiddish for old fart) List. 

Not So Merry Mouseketeers

Wipe that goofy grin off your face, Mickey.  Everyone's very favorite Mousketeer died today. Sob! Annette Funicello has gone to the Clubhouse in the Sky.

The talent given to you and me
we must develop faithfully
so we can be good Mouseketeers.

The boys all wanted to "date" her, and we girls wanted to hate her, but we couldn't because she was so damned nice, and, really, in our hearts, we wanted to be her.  I had brown hair, so why didn't I look like Annette? Well, that would be genetic; once and "een" always an "een" so the best I could hope for was Doreen who looked like she came out of the same boiled-potato-face gene pool that I did.  


When she graduated to the beach blanket, I still wanted to be her.  Q: Why couldn't I have fun like Annette?  A: Because my mother was mean, and back in the 1960's good Catholic girls didn't wear two-piece bathing suits or show cleavage.



By the time Annette got around to shilling for Skippy peanut butter, I had long stopped worrying about being Annette.  For one thing, ours was a Peter Pan family, so I wasn't impressed with her taste.  For another, she and Frankie and the gang were way over on the other side of the Great Cultural Divide of 1967. Summer of Love didn't include any beach blanket bingo as far as I could tell. 

But she'll always live in my heart as my first style icon.  And while four years older seemed an awful lot back them, it's not a lot now, and I think "So young to go."  Maggie Thatcher also died today, but she was 87, and I certainly never thought of her as an icon of anything beyond annoying politics, although, come to think of it,  her helmet head hairdo did resemble Annette's.

So, on this sad day in Trouserville, let's raise a glass of milk and chow down on a peanut butter sandwich in honor of Annette Funicello, always and forever a good, good, good Mousketeer.
  

Jeepers! Creepers?

OMG!  ROFL! LSMFT! Whatever.

It isn't often (in fact it is never) that I see an "It" item in the fashion news and can scream to myself:  I already have it!  Fashionista at last!

Of course in this case, the item is a pair of thick-soled shoes which I purchased three years ago because the high heels had to go. Never mind! Thick-soled shoes, or "creepers," are the shoe of the moment.  I read it in the Wall Street Journal so it must be true.

And here they are, straight from the fashion runway that is my closet:

Neener, neener, who's a wiener now?

While Wikipedia notes that Creepers are fave footgear of many musical subcultures such as punk, ska, psychobilly, greasers and goths, they neglected to mention geezers, wrinklies, codgers or Q-tips.  

I won't be completing my look with skin-tight skull-printed leggings, safety pins in my nose, or Draculetta makeup, but I will definitely be wearing my LOL (little old lady) trousers rolled so I can demonstrate my style cred.  

Just call me "Goody Two-Shoes."

Dancing in the Dirt

I've only myself to blame.  In a family of political junkies, sports fans, free-thinking economists and generally all-around well-informed types, the only thing I am up on is the squoodgy lifestyle news.  Some of it is easy enough to ignore. The comparison reports on Easter hams don't bother me, since someone else will be cooking one this year, and one salt lick is pretty much like any other anyway.  

But ever since overpopulating my neighborhood with cucumbers last summer,  I pay attention to gardening news, even the distressing news that competitive dressing--and I don't mean side-dressing, aka fertilizer--has sashayed through the garden gate.  

According to the Wall Street Joutnal's  Off Duty section:  Many people who garden enter a creative fantasy mind-set, even while pulling weeds and digging flower beds, and they want to dress the part. 

Dressing the Part, Wellfleet Style

I don't have time to speculate on the creative fantasy mindsets (delusional fugue states) of these gals, but dressing the part, it seems, involves bespoke jodphurs, high-end Barbour jackets, and $500 gardening boots.  In other words, add a shotgun and you'll be all set for a shooting party at Downton Abbey.  Or a gallop on the moors. Don't forget the Hermes scarf (and if you need to ask the price, you don't deserve one).

Well, I'm in trouble, since my seasonal gardening costume is less garden party and more garden gnome. 

And I fear my scuffed and faded 30 year old Wellies are just not up to the mark, old chap.  

Future Compost

Maybe my creative fantasy mindset needs a jump start, but I don't see how a pricy equestrian get up is needed to deal with my annual spring clean-up. The only creative fantasy I indulge in is figuring out what would happen if I tried to burn the leaves in situ.  Since what I imagine is a forest fire tearing through the neighborhood, I veto that scenario, and grab the rake.







The WSJ article goes on to quote the manager of the $500 boot company:   "Everybody's secret wish is to transport themselves to a more romantic era and have Mr. Darcy call them while they're picking the flowers."

Romantic era, my ass.  Romantic error, more like.  When I think about the past I don't see myself swanning about like Lady Muck, I see myself grubbing about in the muck.  I'd be the one milking the cows, picking the peas, or feeding the pigs.  If I behaved myself, I might get promoted and be allowed to haul coal scuttles up and down the back stairs. 

Let Them Eat Mulch!

If I were wearing couture overalls, though, I'd probably find it better to engage in creative fantasy mindsets and secret time travel wishes.  Better an imaginary quadrille with Mr. D than a reality check. Better a nosegay from a beau, than a nose full of allergens. News flash to the overdressed:  gardening is dirty, sweaty work.  Think about it.  Culivating, weeding, planting, weeding, harvesting, weeding. Are you familiar with the term "stoop labor." Your hands get dirty, your face gets dirty, your clothes get dirty.  Your manicure (gasp!) will chip. You will find yourself whipping that Hermes scarf off your neck to wipe the sweat out of your eyes.  You will encounter mosquitoes, ticks, cabbage moths, tomato worms, powdery white mildew, slime mold, aphids . . . you get the picture.  Those shiny leather booties ain't gonna stay shiny long, little lady, if you are trundling compost in the back 40. Remember Marie Antoinette, and her famous fantasy mindset at Petit Trianon?  Remember what happened to her?

You'd be better off doing what we do in my neck of the woods: garden in the worn, faded clothes we wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in, and save the jodphurs for another fantasy lifestyle.  Hmm-mm-mm, where did I leave my riding crop?

Does This Thumb-Brace Make My Butt Look Fat?

Please.  Tell me the truth.  Does it?

Clothes-horsiness doesn't run in my family, with the exception of my late Uncle Charlie whose only legacy was a wardrobe full of natty suits and colorful shirts with French cuffs. Not to say that you can't dress us up and take us out once in a while, but since I left the business world my usual 24/7 look is yoga pants (see disclaimer below)* and a tee shirt, with the addition of a fleece jacket in winter. On social occasions requiring more formality, I try to make my late mother proud by aspiring to be “kippy” which in Lizzie's Lexicon meant “anyone over 60 who is wearing a bright orange and pink scarf with a dark wool coat.”

I have quite the collection of scarves, especially since I took up knitting again, but what I hadn't bargained on was having to make closet room for another set of accessories. The kind that come with trying to stay active while aging. These include but are not limited to: sunglasses with stretch holders to keep them on my face, Frankenstein boots with orthotics to keep my toe straight, and the ultimate in osteoarthritic chic: a drawer full of thumb braces, including this classy custom number.

Bespoke Brigham & Women's Orthopedic Design

My wardrobe of thumb braces have come from the most chic boutiques:  stretchy gray fingerless gloves (Amazon), off the shelf braces in nude and black (CVS), and a sporty neoprene number (North Shore Medical).  They all must think the thumb brace makes my butt look fat because they've spread the word of my decrepitude. 

I can't think of another reason why I received this fabulous catalog:  As We Change.

First of all, I love the charitable, if euphemistic, title: As We Change? Really, would you wish to receive a publication called As We Decay? A Gathering of Wrinkles? Fade 'n' Sag?

Secondly, this is clearly for women only. Even if the cover model is wearing a bathing suit, it is hardly the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition type, so no male in the household would tempted to take a peek.  This is good because it will spare me the trip to the ER to rule out concussion when he recoils horror at the stupefying array of embarrassing problem-solvers within, falls on the floor and bangs his head muttering "butt-boosting wrinkle smoother. "

Some of the items are less distressing than others. It's easy to get distracted by page after page of shampoos, creams, serums, tablets, and sprays to solve the problem of thinning and/or graying hair.  They must work, though, because the models all look like they are 39, there's not a gray hair in sight, and who wouldn't want to look like the Real Housewives of Never-Never Land?  Tempting as this outcome would be, some of these  products seem engineered to create as many problems as they solve.

Suppose I succumb to Viviscal: "Simply shake Viviscal hair filler fibers on your head and blend." Shake them on your head and blend?   With a whisk?  An egg beater?  One of the mini-vibrators on page 51? And what are these fibers made of? How will they stick to the pathetic remains of my hair?  What if I choose the wrong color?  Or add too much product? Will I end up looking like the Pointy Haired Boss in Dilbert?  What happens if I inhale them as they cascade around my head and shoulders?  Do I need a face mask to use them? 

No.  Can't waste my time worrying about that. Better to concentrate on products more appealing to us thumb brace users: active types who worrry about their flying flab. Great! There's a full range of work-out clothes, all of which feature some kind of slimming element, which is another way of saying they will constrict you so much that you won't be able to breathe very well if you actually try to work out in them.  

Oh, no, I just realized the thumb brace might make my butt and my arms look fat. Thank goodness, I can take advantage of the last chance offer to purchase Tres Sleek arm shapers which will slim my upper arms by 1/2" to 3."  Super! But where does the excess flesh go?  Will it ooze out onto my lower arms and make me look like Popeye?  Hard to guess because the woman modeling it resembles Olive Oyl. 

Better move on to the swimsuits. There are many swimsuits, a lot of them with skirts, along with oversized sunhats and some darling beach coverups that resemble strapless muumuus.  All right! I think I've found the key to butt-concealing, arm-hiding nirvana.  A  muumuu.  Problem is, AWC doesn't have any with sleeves.  Not a problem. I know where to get one with sleeves. Bonus! Add one of those oversized sunhat  and some bunion-friendly sandals and I will be ready to rock the boardwalk.  There is only one drawback (sorry, Lizzie):  even if I buy the fuchsia number with the dancing daisies, I am afraid I won't really look very kippy at all.

*No, not lululemon brand, which has recently issued a recall for "too sheer" yoga pants; a move that the L A TImes says has put their stock into "downward dog."