Retirement changes everything. When I stopped working, I had a wardrobe full of business casual clothing. Skirts and pants, suitable for an office environment, but comfortable because I had long since forsworn suffering on behalf of fashion. Boots and shoes that would go with the aforementioned “nice” clothing.
I also had the “fancy” wardrobe since, when Garry was working, we got invited to A-list events where formal clothing was mandated. It’s the only time in my life I had a formal wardrobe and led me to the discovery of those few designers who manage to make evening wear for women that does not cause pain, (and) or require a professional dresser to manage the zippers, buttons, and hooks. The organization of formal women’s wear can make the dashboard of a 747 look like child’s play.
There were overcoats for dress, for play, and the inevitable, regionally appropriate deep-winter parka guaranteed to keep you alive through an Antarctic blizzard.
Boots for winter, sandals for summer, heels for dressing. Flats for when the feet hurt too much to care. Pantyhose and insulated tights, heavy socks, thin socks. Big heavy gloves, lovely, elegant gloves (one usually lost before the second wearing). Shawls and wraps, capes and cloaks. Watch caps and wooly hats. Summer hats with wide brims to protect me from the sun.
Then, one day, all I needed were a few sweatshirts and sweaters, tee shirts, sweat pants, yoga pants and one good black dress per season. The rest? I’d never wear it again.
When I first stopped working, I dressed as if I was going to the office. I did it automatically. I was programmed. One day, I looked at Garry. He had stopped wearing his sexy jeans and had made the big move to pajama bottoms with elastic waistbands.
I realized I needed to move on and was happy to do so. Today, it’s yoga and sweat pants. Logo tee and sweat shirts. Socks for my feet in the house.
Sandals in summer, Uggs in winter, clogs in-between. I have a pair of heels — the obligatory box shoes — in case I positively have no choice but to wear something dressy. It happens. Rarely. Once in a deep blue moon.
Clothes are still important. They have to be washable (dog hair is a fact of life). Comfortable. Loose. I find myself obsessive about non clashing colors. I favor neutral bottoms. Not a problem. Gray, black, tan, taupe, and navy will never go out of style. On top, black dominates, but there’s also red, orange, purple (violet, lavender) and even some green and blue.
Of course clothing is important. Naked at my age is not only chilly, but ew. It’s different. No one is going to notice the designer label except Garry and he doesn’t care.
I can wear whatever. And in a this town, whatever I wear is high fashion. That would include my Castle “WRITER” sweatshirt and my Abby’s lab forensic NCIS hoodie. Because I know fashion.