Aging Uniformly

A week or so ago, the kids and hubby and I went out to dinner with Hubby's folks as a make-up date for a missed Easter get-together. Then, on Sunday evening, the girl child and I went to a mother/daughter "High Tea" with my mother-in-law. In effect, much of our weekend was spent in the company of the “older” generation. And, according to my own unofficial research, “older” refers to any folk around the ages of my mother and mother-in-law, so let’s be vague enough to say seventy-five to eighty-five. 

Now, the women of my family are generally a pretty practical bunch and although we do like to keep up our appearance, I don't believe we're the types who fuss and fret (too much) over the occasional grey hair, nor do we get bent out of shape over our rapidly multiplying “laugh lines”. 

That in itself may put us in the minority these days, but hey, we’re okay with that. Usually, my hair is naturally a boring dishwater blond, but thanks to stylist extraordinaire Leslie, it’s now a fabulous mix of honey, caramel and butterscotch. Sounds delish, no? I am also happy to report that in my mid-forties, grey hair has yet to make an appearance. Thanks for that little help, genetics.

Anyway...based on the super-sized energy level of my mother-in-law who can, figuratively and maybe even literally, run circles around me and my kids, and my own mother who has a more active social life at 80+ than I think I've ever had, I have a couple of pretty good examples of how to live as I age. So far, so good. So, I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not afraid to get old(er). The thing I think I really fear about aging is the apparent uniform I’ll be wearing. 

You see, when we arrived at the restaurant late Friday afternoon, it was basically empty. Not long after, the crowd started coming in. A crowd of the "older" generation. As I watched them traipse in, I noticed that each and every woman there, wore the same type of clothing, the same hairstyle, displayed the same mannerisms- it was amusing and not a little bit astonishing. 

Every one of them had short, white or gray permed hair, an elastic waist-banded top with something embroidered on it in colors which coordinated with their elastic waistband pants. All donned sensible pairs of shoes- not too flashy and very supportive of their arches, in a beige, black, or greenish-brown color. The single thing that made one or two of them stand out was the bright Vera Bradley purses they carried, likely a gift from a grandchild. It was the uniform of the standard Midwestern Ohio elderly woman. Haband! 

I turned back to the table when the waitress brought our dinners. My in-laws had both ordered the Swiss Steak and mashed potatoes with green beans. They both had ice water, no lemon, and my father-in-law added a coffee. I noticed that four of the five ladies at the nearby table had ordered the same meal. The other had soup. 

Was I imagining this or do the women in this area actually morph into a of pack Estelle Getty clones once they hit seventy? As we left, I began to look for more similarities among the elders, and there, in the parking lot, were about a dozen Buicks in gray, black or silver. One burgundy-colored Century was the lone hold-out. As we drove back to my in-laws' house, we trailed two more elderly drivers in Buicks, speeding along at twenty miles an hour. *sigh*

Now, I'm all for comfort and safety as much as the next gal, but this obvious commonality was bewildering. Sunday, at the mother/daughter tea party, there were perhaps a dozen or so of us under that age of fifty. The rest, ages seventy and up. I began to observe how once again, so many of the elderly women resembled each other. 

What we "young 'uns" wore compared to the elders was interesting. Where there once was dark tailored denim, there is now the "denim-look" of a comfy pair of pull-on pants. A fun pair of heels are replaced with thick-soled lace-ups in a practical shade of brown. It was as if once they turned seventy, a switch was thrown, sending them all scrambling for the Alfred Dunner collection at JC Penney's. 

My mama? I like her way of living life. She could easily fit that mold, but I think she rejects the whole notion of dressing and acting her age. She drives a sporty, bright red Hyundai, she doesn't wear purple pantsuits with a fancy red hat, she doesn't play bingo, she just doesn't...conform. I like that. A lot. And, if I'm just as lucky, I will also live a long, happy life and be one of those old ladies who go to dinner with friends at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. 


I hope the uniform changes by then; I look terrible with a perm.