Memory 1: My mother visiting my sister Sheila and I when we lived in New York City in the mid-80’s. My mother loved the city, and put time and effort into pulling together fun outfits for trips to museums and out to eat.  Meanwhile, my sister and I would get up on the weekend and pull on our old college sweats, without make-up, before heading out to the diner at Lincoln Square for coffee and muffins. To quote my mother, “Have I got the two worst dressed girls in New York?”to which we replied, “But Mom, no one cares; no one knows us here.” Mom,however, was right. We were caught out, because in Manhattan, you will eventually run into someone you know from work, from school, or from your hometown. Sheila and I,we made some effort to reform our ways, but more often, hurried away when we spotted someone who would recognize us even unshowered and unshampooed.

 Memory 2: Sitting on a lounge chair by a pool aboard a cruise ship out of New Orleans,alone while my boys were playing shuffleboard or at the arcade.  I’m resting, eyes closed behind sunglasses when I overhear two middle-aged women speaking:

“It’s unforgivable, really, how some women let themselves go. The sight of an aging woman is not pleasant to anyone. Who wants to look at wrinkles or gray hair?  I can’t stand the sight of a woman who doesn’t take care of herself. This idea of going “natural”is ridiculous.” 

I begin to squirm a little. Approaching 50, no nails, no hair dye, my hair has frizzed in the humidity, and I haven’t done much of a job shaving my legs, sharing the room with three guys.  I’ve been swimming, and the make up is gone.  Is it me they’re talking about?

 “There are so many products and services out there,” the second woman replied, “there are no excuses.  Yes, it costs money; but we all have to make an effort. I haven’t seen my own hair color since my late twenties.”

 “I’ve been doing Jenny Craig since I was thirty,” says the other woman, “Not that it makes a bit of difference. But at least I’m trying..

 A few moments pass. One lady asks. “Are you going to the midnight buffet?”

 “You bet ‘cha.” The other one says.

 I get up, finally, to go to the bathroom.

 “Cute cover-up, honey,” One of the ladies says to me. I guess I passed muster, or else I covered up the worst.  

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 The “trousseau” or wedding chest in our bedroom that was once full of new linens and towels is now full of my sweats, loose, shapeless clothes that I wear around the house. While I make an effort to look presentable when I’m out and about, at home I indulge my inner slob, the true and comfortable me.