FASHION OCD

When I'm off Island I shop. It's seems to me that's the only reason to go off Island. I go to malls. I go to Kappy's. I go to CVS and The Christmas Tree Shop. I shop till I drop. Unfortunately I shop like a kid at the beach, picking up pretty stones and shells. Whatever catches my eye. Usually when I get home I have lots of stuff but nothing matches--which is a real problem for me as you will see.

FASHION OCD

I have Fashion Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Those of you who were reared any time after the fifties or early sixties will not understand this. In my youth there were very specific fashion rules. My mother had me convinced that I could be given a citation if I wore white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. White was for summer only. No such thing as winter white when I was a kid. And even in the summer people said rude things about men who wore white loafers. These fashion rules were repealed during the late sixties and seventies (as anyone who went to Woodstock or Studio 54 can tell you). I still feel uncomfortable, however, when I break one.
I recently started therapy for this and my first attempt at a cure was to buy a purse that would be impossible to match to a pair of shoes. Matching bags and shoes has been a compulsion of mine since I started carrying a bag. Black with black, brown with brown, I have an entire closet that is dedicated to footwear and their matching bags. When I was young and had lots of time, changing bags daily wasn’t much of a problem. Now that I’m retired I find it tiresome. My friends tell me it’s been years since this was necessary, but a compulsion is a compulsion. My new bag looks like a giraffe. It would be impossible to match it exactly but I still try to maintain a color scheme so my wardrobe has become predominately brown and gold.
Another rule was the prohibition of wearing plaid and stripes together. Or stripes and polka dots. This would be instant fashion suicide. I’ve never figured out why they call them polka dots either. Are you supposed to dance when you wear them? Even certain color combinations were taboo. Wearing blue and brown together still makes me cringe, though I do it to match a certain Vera Bradley bag that I purchased on sale last year. It was an impulse purchase and a huge mistake. I have a panic attack every time I look at it.
The current fashion rule regarding prints is--and I read this today in In Style magazine--do not wear prints of more than two colors together. So, you can wear a green and blue plaid blouse, black and white striped pants, and an orange and purple polka dot jacket. You’ll look like you were in a paint factory explosion but technically you will be following the rules.
I remember going to church when I was a kid. Getting dressed took as long as the sermon. I wore a hat, gloves, and patent leather shoes. In the winter the hat matched the coat. I went to a church wedding in the early 70’s. The women guests were in jeans and had curlers in their hair, covered with scarves, in preparation for the reception. So much for respecting God’s temple.
The 70’s really demolished most of the rules regarding dress. This was the decade that produced leisure suits with lapels big enough to repair an eagle’s broken wing and platform shoes that made everyone look like they’d joined the circus. Psychedelic was the word and the fashion designers were going out of their way to be outrageous. You can imagine my distress. I thought the styles were hideous. Then as if figuring out plaid, stripes, and polka dots wasn’t enough, someone invented paisley. I had a nervous breakdown and spent the next six months locked in my closet, naked!
When the designers started putting their name on everything, my mother became outraged. Prone to cliches she said it would be a cold day in hell before she’d be a free walking advertisement for some rich company and pay through the nose for the privilege. Her exception, since her name was Lee, was, of course, Lee jeans or tee shirts or any other item that had Lee emblazoned across it’s chest or butt. She explained this by saying she was only advertising herself. This was good for her because Lee was the only designer brand she could afford.
Moving to Martha’s Vineyard has gone a long way to help cure my Fashion OCD. No one wears dresses or high heels. If your jeans are clean you are welcome in any establishment you pass by. Shorts and flip flops are suitable year round. There are pretty much two modes of dress here. Summer visitor, which is preppy with lots of Lilly Pulitzer or year rounder which means that most everything in your wardrobe was purchased at an end of season sale or at the thrift shop. And the people in West Tisbury, of course, shop at the Dumptique.
I think I’m starting to get better. Yesterday I wore a pair of black flip flops with my giraffe bag.

BIOLOGICAL CROCK, TWO

It's funny how your prospective changes as you sail through life. For example, I passed a photo studio the other day and they had a big sign proclaiming--SENIOR PICTURES. I thought--what would a senior want a studio portrait for?? His obit?? Then it dawned on me--it's graduation time!!!! Duh. Well it IS still senior citizen month.

BIOLOGICAL CROCK, TWO

My mother used to say, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” I finally know what she meant. There are a multitude of problems I never even anticipated much less thought about. I never worried about my weight until I hit middle age. I guess I became less active. I didn’t go out dancing anymore, or any of the other activities that use up calories. Suddenly my clothes started getting tighter, and my skin got baggier--like polyester. I joined a gym and tried to work out as often as I could but it didn’t do much good until I retired. Then I had more time to exercise and the growth spurt reversed itself. It’s hard work though. Even though I learned about the aging of the female body in nursing school it was still a shock when it happened.

And my hair. I’ve been a blond ever since Miss Clairol was born. I have reached an age where blond no longer looks believable. So I asked my guy at The Hair Studio what to do. “You’ll have to give it some thought,” said Peter. “You can go several ways, but my best advice would be to cut it short and let it grow out during the winter when you can wear a hat. When spring comes no one will remember what your hair color was.” This sounds logical to me but then he adds, “Keep in mind that white hair looks thin and your scalp may show.” I wonder why he’s trying to discourage me. Is it to keep a customer or because he feels I will go all through the stages then be dissatisfied, and he wants to save me the aggravation.

I mentioned that I don’t go out dancing any more. In fact I don’t do anything at night if I can avoid it. My night vision is pretty crappy so if it isn’t necessary to drive I don’t. I don’t think I’m the only one. I guess that’s why they don’t have too many evening programs at the senior center. I go to matinees now.

You’d think retired people such as myself wouldn’t get impatient. However, I find myself talking to the other car drivers, the cyclists, mopeders or anyone who gets in my way. This annoys my husband. He finds it disconcerting when I scream, “What the f**k!” He doesn’t understand that what I really want to do is stop and give them what for. Or stick my arm out the window and shove their bike over. Maybe, even though I have nothing to do and all day to do it, I sense time getting short.

I buy fewer checks than I used to. I used to buy 800 at a clip. Now I buy 200. It would be wasteful for my heirs to have to throw them away. I remember that my mother once came home from a trip with extra travelers checks. She hid them so well it was years before she found them. I have taken this lesson to heart and make sure that anything I may ever want to use again is out in plain sight. It makes for a messy house but at least I can lay my hands on most of my possessions. This will be good when the memory starts to go. As long as I can see the stuff I’ll be able to find it.

I don’t shave my armpits any longer. Can’t see if they need it without my reading glasses, and I’m not about to wear them in the shower. There are some things better not seen anyway. I never wear my glasses in bed with my husband either. I don’t want to see those liver spots, warts, and errant hairs growing in weird places. God knew what he was doing when he started doling out forty year old eyes. And lucky is the man whose bald spot is on the back of his head. Out of sight...out of mind so they say. Besides, the only place I seem to be growing hair anymore is on my chin. And I still have pretty healthy eyebrows, though they do seem to roam more than they used to.

Sitting in one place for too long has become a problem. I get so stiff I have trouble standing up. I’ve decided I’ll take the paper to the gym and read it on the treadmill thereby solving two problems. I’ll get my exercise and bone up on current events without turning into stone.

My mother also said getting old was better than the alternative. I guess she was right. So I’m determined to tough it out, kicking and screaming the whole way. As long as I can lift my foot, that is.

IT'S OFFICIAL--AMERICA IS GRAY!

Well everyone--May is senior citizen month so thought I'd gripe about being old and cranky. Don't worry--I'll get my mojo back soon!

IT’S OFFICIAL--AMERICA IS GRAY!

I’ve been hearing for years about the graying of America. I don’t know if the whole country is gray, but I know that I am. My husband and I used to go out dancing. A lot. Until one night we went into a disco, looked around, and got the distinct feeling we were at a high school prom. After that we confined our boogying to weddings where there were enough real adults to make us feel comfortable. (It’s a sad fact of life that by the time you no longer need a baby-sitter--you no longer need a baby-sitter!)

We shifted the focus of our leisure time to activities that our peers preferred. Dinner and a movie or show seemed to keep other people our age happy, but after we retired we had all those extra hours to fill. People always asked, “What do you do with your day?” Of course we had the standard retiree’s reply, “We’re busier than ever! The time just flies by.” The truth is, that guy Peter or Murphy or whoever it was that said ‘an activity expands to fill the time available’ was right on. A couple of loads of laundry that used to be done between dinner and the bed time story now takes up Wednesday. Food shopping is done daily instead of weekly and that novel I always wanted to write is coming along. The house isn’t any cleaner than when I worked (maybe less because I can’t justify a cleaning lady), but I have lots of time to cook those gourmet recipes that I always wanted to try. Can’t do it more than once a week though because of the acid reflux.

We have made friends with lots of other retirees and enjoy socializing with them. Always big on cocktail parties, we throw them fairly regularly, with a few modifications. No longer do our guests arrive at nine with the last departing sometimes as late as three am. Now the invite reads five pm and even the youngest and heartiest are gone by eight thirty. That’s ok with us because it means we have a half hour to unwind before bedtime.

These days instead of waiting until I look like a skunk I have a standing appointment at the beauty salon for a touch up and trim, a biweekly manicure and monthly pedicure. Dinner and a movie has turned into lunch and a matinee, comedies only please. Now that I have time to read the paper I find myself avoiding it because it depresses me. Cheery news doesn’t sell. Fortunately I don’t recognize most of the names in the obituary, yet. Stress never goes away. The things that used to cause stress have disappeared into the past. Now the worries are about things we never even thought about before. Health, investments, grandchildren.

We own a cabin on a lake in Northeastern Pennsylvania. We used to call it a weekend house, but it’s too far away to go for the weekend now. We go there three times a year for a couple of weeks but I can’t really call it a vacation home. If you’re retired what do you go on vacation from? Maybe I should call it our change of scenery home. January we go for a month so we can ski. The last two years it’s been just too cold to go out much. My husband gets cabin fever so he suggested a night out at one of the local resorts. I responded negatively because the local resorts are mostly for honeymooners and dinner isn’t until eight and the show doesn’t start until ten and the dancing, well there’s that prom thing again.

He assured me he had found a resort I would like. Their guests are multigenerational, dinner is at six and the show starts at eight. He promised we’d be home by ten fifteen. How could I refuse?

They weren’t kidding when they said dinner at six. We arrived at ten after and were the last party seated. My husband, who knows my concern about feeling out of place, patted my hand and grinned. I looked around and decided I loved the place. There were gray and balding heads as far as the eye could see. It looked like a reunion of the class of 1950. These people were old but not elderly. They were lively and vibrant. Not a wheelchair or cane in sight. The dancing was great. The music was familiar. It was like a wedding but better--something we thought we had lost was found. This resort obviously caters to people of a ‘certain age’. The most astonishing thing I saw was a plastic syringe disposal system in the ladies room. Even illness didn’t stop anyone from having fun and this resort covers any and all amenities.

When my children ask me how they will be able to afford the same comfortable retirement, I tell them to put their money into Clairol, Ben Gay and Viagra. Now-a-days life begins at sixty.

WANT FRIES WITH THAT?

This time of the year the Island starts to bloom. Like the unfurling of a rosebud, restaurants and businesses reopen and the neighborhoods are under attack by an army of landscapers. A version of this essay was previously printed in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?

I should’a known better. I’ve lived on the Island for enough time. But after a long winter with less than twenty restaurants in three towns to choose from I made a monumental mistake. Several springs ago a girlfriend was visiting from South Yarmouth. Now, people from Cape Cod, unless they work here or visit frequently are just as susceptible to those glossy tourist guides as folks from--oh, say--Boise, Idaho. Letting Karen choose a restaurant for lunch was a big mistake.

Even in August when most have a compliment of experienced wait staff, I avoid the places listed in guide books. Unfortunately my friend had her heart set on one of the most famous of them all. A restaurant that opened many years ago as a place for locals and working men to go to get a cup of coffee (regular, no latte or mochachino in those days) and hearty breakfast or lunch. Believe it or not it opened its doors for the first time in January! A time of year that, in this day and age, would guarantee failure. The preceding winter, for the first (and only) time, this venerable institution had closed. Understandable, since over the years it had evolved from a local hangout to a number one tourist destination. And since tourists think we close the Island for the winter, there wasn’t enough business to stay open. Like I said, understandable. It is not a light decision I am sure, since the ramifications are mighty. A restaurant that closes in the winter looses its staff. Most people who wait tables for a living cannot afford to take the winter off. Which means the establishments need to hire new each spring.

And, therein, you should pardon the use of a literary cliché, lies my tale.

It was sometime in the spring, April or May. I remember the daffodils. No roses yet. Parking was not impossible. No lines snaking out the restaurant doors. We were shown a table almost immediately by a charming, attentive hostess. It took a while to realize there was anything wrong at all. We looked over the rather eclectic menu and made our choices, chatting all the while. At last caught up and with little left to say we started to look for a waitperson. Finally our order was taken by an apologetic young man who spoke with an accent so thick it transported us to Dublin. Food on the way we indulged in our favorite pastime, people watching. It was then that we started to become alarmed.

The woman at a table across from us looked quite perturbed. Her companion had a plate of cooling food in front of him, untouched, one assumes, out of politeness. They were both looking about frantically, waving their arms, trying to flag down any employee who’s eye they could catch. This did not seem to be unique. As my friend and I paid more attention to what was going on around us we noticed that what we had taken for comfortable conversation between diners sounded more like an angry grumble. The window ledge into the kitchen was lined with lunches and the chef was screaming, “Orders up!”. The wait staff was running around the room with plates of food stopping at every table asking, “Did you order this?”, then sailing off in another direction. Finally a waitress asked the pouting woman across from us if she had ordered what was on the plate in her hand. The customer nodded in the affirmative and was served. Her companion commented that that wasn’t what she ordered and she snapped, “I want to eat today.”

How was our lunch you ask? Well, we got almost everything we ordered after a slightly longer than reasonable wait. And of course, we got someone else’s check. The hostess apologized and explained the long wait by saying it was opening day.

Like I said, I should’a known better.