Happy Medium

What's worse? My corduroy jumpsuit or the pathetic Christmas tree? Toss up?

You know that friend? The really stylish one? That friend whose gifts choose themselves, because when you walk into a shop, that scarf or pair of earrings screams her name? She has a carefully curated wardrobe, and her hair and makeup choices are equally well-thought out. She knows, instinctively, when she’s too old to wear something—though she never, ever dresses “old”—and she segues into jazzy tunics and leggings when the time for short skirts has passed. You know her? 

I ask, because I am, emphatically, not that friend. 

I’ve never had much personal flair. Growing up, I always jumped on the bandwagon of a fashion trend just as the rest of the world was jumping off, headed for the next big thing without me. Photos of me in my thirties and early forties are pretty cringeworthy, between the ugly ugly maternity wear, and the tragic mom jeans. Rarely, I’d sport something eye-catching--though not for the right reasons. At one point I had bright yellow sneakers, which I wore with everything and actually didn’t go with anything. 

But then came my mental illness, cleverly disguised as a Midlife Crisis. Suddenly I was all about looking young and trendy, my bedroom closet bursting at the seams with my impulse purchases. I probably looked a bit ridiculous, but I thought I was adorable—and NO one could say my fashion choices were the least bit matronly. 

I had hoped, as the gap between my current life and those horrible years in the late 2000’s increased, that I’d be able to revisit my bipolar manic mood swings without becoming nauseated. But the feelings persist, like an aching tooth that you can’t stop poking with your tongue. I try to avoid my triggers—for instance, I cannot walk into Bloomingdales, ever again, nor Sephora, nor any of my other retail haunts from that crazy time. I gave away my 30 pairs of stiletto heels as part of my recovery, but still, now, even seeing another woman wearing high heels can be enough to bring those bad feelings back.  

Therefore, for about a decade, I’ve been in limbo—once again dressing for inconspicuousness, but not yet ready to wave the polyester flag of surrender. 

But there are signs of a late-life awakening, the discovery of a middle ground where I can embrace my style (indeed, learn what that style may be), without plunging back into madness. Recently, I have started buying clothes and accessories again (all online, see above). I notice myself gravitating towards certain colors and fabrics, and am enjoying little things like buying a cute vintage change purse and nice sunglasses. I don’t dress to attract tons of attention, but neither do I dress to blend in with the scenery. 

It’s all part of redefining sixty-something Elise, and it’s pretty neat. And while I still look back with regrets, I’m focusing more these days on—these days, and the me that is living them, right now.

Snazzy change purse and all.

Ta-da!