Old-lady clothes and saddle shoes

 Smugness is not nice. Smug people really annoy me.

Now comes the confession. I have been smug. Since the beginning of the pandemic in 2020 until now, I’ve felt smug about not becoming infected, when family members and other friends around me did. Oh, yes, I’ve been vaccinated and boosted, and I’ve respected the masking mandates (for the most part), but lately even people who’ve done all this have contracted the virus. Two months ago, I nursed Hal through his bout with Covid and did not become infected.

You probably know where this is going. I can no longer be smug because I am currently under quarantine with the nasty virus. For the last few days, I’ve been aching, coughing, and lamenting.

I wanted you to know this. Or maybe I just needed to confess my sin. But that’s not the subject of this blog. The subject is—clothes.

A few years ago, as I was approaching the time when I knew I really would grow old, I decided that when that time came, I would not wear old-lady clothes. I would accept growing older as best I could, but I would not give in to the stereotypes. I would do my best not to look old.

I really can’t describe “old-lady clothes,” just that when I see 'em, I know 'em.

I think I’ve always had a sensitivity to clothes, a negative sensitivity that often caused me to feel inappropriate. Not that we were poor or that I lacked for what I needed. Thanks to my mom’s ability with the sewing machine and the generosity of older cousins who handed down their dresses, I never went without. (But I did, sometimes, grumble.)

I remember clearly the ugliest piece of clothing I ever had to wear. They were called “saddle shoes.” The name evokes images of mules, dusty trails, and rural klutziness, but my mom expected me to wear them. To school. In front of everyone.

I must have been in the fourth or fifth grade. My mom was the proverbial Good Mother, so sensible shoes were the order of the day. After all, they were “good for my feet.”

Sturdy, yes. Substantial. But also clunky and awkward. A white shoe with a large black band across the top—the “saddle”—that tied up and needed to be worn with ankle socks.

In those days little girls wore dresses to school. The saddle shoes definitely did not go with dresses. They were not feminine. They were not pretty.

Ugly.

I hated them. And I was angry at Mom for making me wear them.

Furthermore, I was skinny. One of my nicknames—what the other kids chose to call me—was Bird-Legs. Can you picture it? Top to bottom: a crop of unruly naturally curly blond hair, a frilly dress, two thin stick-like legs, stuck into a foundation of chunky sensible shoes.

No wonder I felt ugly and awkward.

That feeling accelerated in the teen years, of course, but as I became an adult, I was gradually learning to focus more on other people and not to be so concerned about how I appeared to them. I like to think I was becoming mature. Maybe I was.

But I still, from time to time, suffer bouts of feeling inadequate and wishing my wardrobe was better and more abundant.

Here in the retirement community, I’ve noticed a continuum of clothing styles. It’s almost like being back in high school. There are beautiful women among us who are well-dressed, beautifully coiffed, and slender. They are the prom queens and cheerleaders. At the other end of the continuum, the old-lady clothes walk the halls. Most of us (me, for example) are somewhere in the middle.

But all of this is a superficial view of reality. I’ve found some of my dearest friends among the prom queens, women who are down-to-earth, funny, and kind. And many other close friends wear, yes, old-lady clothes. (So far I haven’t seen anyone around here wearing saddle shoes.) While it’s good to dress well, according to our tastes and pocket-books, what matters is who we are. You all know that. I just need to remind myself from time to time.

St. Paul encouraged the early Christians to “clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience” (Colossians 3:12). Now that’s the way mature people dress. Not to mention that it’s also attractive. Something to set my mind on wherever I again become dissatisfied with my wardrobe.

Going back in time to those saddle shoes, I begin to understand. As an older person with strong, healthy feet, I get it. While I no longer have to wear saddle shoes, I choose sensible.

Thanks, Mom.