About a year ago, my co-workers commented on a particularly stunning outfit I happened to be wearing.
We have no dress code at my office. We are exceptionally casual. So my stunning outfit consisted of jeans, black top with empire waist, floral sweater in black, gray and white.
Of this group of co-worker friends, I am the oldest. I could almost say, “I am the oldest by far” – but let’s not go that far.
I was happy to receive these sincere compliments on my attire – (I am delirious, actually, when anyone says I look good – why just today a friend said I had a lovely complexion, and I needed to work that into this post, so here it is.) – and I found it an opportune time to discuss my future fashion choices.
obsessed slightly worried that I will start to look foolish if I don’t sometime soon “dress my age”. I don’t want to be an old lady dressing like a teenager. We’ve all seen some of those.
So my friends and I made a pact. They formulated a secret code to let me know if I cross the line from stylish to ridiculous.
Here’s the code: “What a fantastic outfit. My daughter would love it.”
We had a good laugh over it that morning.
But Yikes. Here it is a year down the line, and I heard the secret code.
I went to work the other day in one of my favorite outfits. I’ve worn it before. It’s cool. I love it.
Red empire waist tunic, black knit jacket, superb jeans.
And a nice sweet woman, about ten years younger than I, said, “What a great top. My daughter would love it.”
She wasn’t part of the pact. She doesn’t know the secret code.
Does that make it worse?