MY MIDDLE-AGE BARBIE DREAM CLOSET

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At my 60th birthday luncheon, my mother got a big laugh with her speech that began, “Susan came out of the womb naked and bare, and immediately stated – I have nothing to wear”.  While slightly exaggerated, this has been my mantra since middle school. I am perpetually fretting about what to wear for every occasion.  

As a young girl, I spent hours playing dolls with my two best friends, coveting the array of outfits in their Barbie Fashion Case. As twins, they had more than double the amount of pieces than in my paltry collection. Despite my pleadings for more, my pragmatic mom resisted, and enlisted our elderly babysitter to crochet my dolls chunky, unfashionable yarn dresses. I wonder if this was the root of my feeling of never having the right clothes, despite my overflowing closet.

I am haunted by every bad fashion decision I’ve made – the orthopedic sandals I purchased in high school that I thought were ironically cool, the maroon raincoat my mom made me buy for college when I wanted the camel, the red silk harem pants I wore to a charity event that made me look like a jester.  Even now, seeing wedding and party invitations in the mail triggers palpitations. I recently got one that said the attire was “Ferngully Formal”. Was I supposed to go to the mall or a costume store? 

How did I, a former fashion stylist for Saks, whose job was to tell others what to wear, succumb to such fashion self doubt? Unlike Barbie, body parts have started to sag and my arches have fallen too. Let’s face it; it’s hard to know how to dress appropriately after a certain age!

I know I’m not alone in this struggle. No matter how much we shop, none of us seem to have anything to put on. Friends text pictures from their bedrooms modeling shoes and tops to ask my opinion. Even my 91-year-old mom mastered FaceTime to ask my approval from a dressing room in a Florida mall. It’s not our fault we are so lost. The stores are showing clothes with cutouts in places no one wants to see. Skirts are short, pants are wide, ruffles and patterns abound. It seems like Ugly is The New Black.

So what are we to do?  At this point in my life, I’ve experimented with every trend and have developed my “look”.  I still want to stay up-to-date and be fashionable. Yet when I shop in the contemporary department I have to wonder “does this outfit go with my face?” I want to look young, but not like an aging hipster.  As my friend’s mother, Sylvia, used to say, “There’s a fine line between an outfit and a get-up”.

When you are young you can get away with the latest trends. Fringed jeans and holes on the knees of a GenXer exudes trendiness. On an older person it gives off bag lady vibes. Forever 21 may have closed, but if Forever 61 opened I’d be first in line. No one wants to see me in a crop top with my belly looking like focaccia. I’ve always tried to avoid being what Glamour Magazine used to call a Fashion “DON’T”. 

My closet was beginning to give vintage store vibes, however there’s a fine line between a retro treasure and a “schmatta”.  I still own the stretched out pullover I wore for my first date with my husband and we are married over 35 years! Recently, as I was getting dressed for dinner, I spent 30 minutes snatching things off hangers leaving a tsunami of shirts and pants on my bedroom floor.  Meanwhile my husband walked into his closet, grabbed the first thing he saw and was ready to go. I asked him how I looked and he answered, “fine” without even looking up. Clearly, he was used to this scenario.

It prompted a realization. Although he always looks more than presentable, he’s not one someone should turn to for fashion advice. But I envied the way he and other men basically have a “uniform” for every occasion, and don’t ruminate over what to wear or what people think. 

The next weekend I spent a few hours “consciously uncoupling” with items in my closet and tossed or donated half my clothes. No one needs 20 pairs of blue jeans — I only wore 5 favorites. I culled the things that hadn’t been worn in years. It’s easier to get dressed when you like everything you own, versus a full closet of useless pieces. I noticed what was missing and went shopping for a few classic, versatile pieces…a tweedy blazer with pretty buttons, well-fitting black flared jeans, a pair of leather boots I could walk comfortably in, neutral cashmere sweaters, and a new handbag to accessorize everything. Classic doesn’t have to be boring.

Men don’t size each other up when they walk into a party. I resolved to stop worrying so much about what other people think, and embrace my own choices. If skinny jeans look good on me, I don’t care if influencers say they are out of style.  I’ll be wearing them!

Women have endured painful shoes and tight garments for way too long. No more wearing clothes that itch, pinch or constrict breathing. I have often quoted a French phrase that translates to “one must suffer to be beautiful”. That must have been said by someone much younger and with better feet.

Fashion comes and goes but style is forever. My husband doesn’t change his entire wardrobe every season. Neither did fashion icons like Coco Chanel or Jackie Onassis. My grandmother Alice was still put together at 98. I don’t need to mirror what others are wearing, especially not people half my age. No one is looking at us as critically as we judge ourselves. Confidence is the best accessory. 

Although I’m making progress, sometimes I still stare blankly at my curated closet and wonder what to wear. Old habits die hard but I feel less stressed knowing I will figure it out and leave my house feeling good. How I feel about myself is all that matters.  I don’t own a speck of pink clothing, except for the Cowgirl Barbie outfit I donned for Halloween, but I am finally building my own Dream Closet.

FOR A HAPPIER 2023 TRY NOT DOING THESE TEN THINGS

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It’s nearly February, I still haven’t made any resolutions and Dry January ended up soaking wet. I’m nearly halfway through my sixties, and I am pretty stuck in my ways. It’s the middle of winter … who needs the stress of making changes? As women we are barraged with advice about aging, diet, exercise, beauty and health and I already know what I should be doing. That doesn’t mean I want to do it all. Social media is an especially dangerous place with ads and celebs, influencers and filters. With each swipe and scroll, I don’t feel motivated, I just feel like a slacker.

I thought middle school was hard on my confidence – who knew it would be even trickier in middle age? There’s so much pressure to stay fit and look youthful. I’m putting up a good fight, but I’m not sure this is one worth winning. So in 2023, I am resolving to let go of these impossibly high standards, and be more accepting of myself. I’m not saying I’m giving up coloring my hair, skipping the gym, or ditching my pricy dermatologist. I just want to lower my own impossibly high standards that I should look as smooth and shiny as a red carpet celeb. To achieve this, I am tossing my TO DO LIST. Instead, I have made a DON’T list. Here are my recommendations of 10 THINGS NOT TO DO to feel more content and confident this year.

DO NOT do downward dog or any other yoga or Pilates position wearing anything other than full-length spandex exercise attire. I learned this lesson looking down while wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts, with my face inches from my belly, as it was pulled by the forces of gravity. I was traumatized seeing my stomach looking like a tufted ottoman and my knees like a Shar Pei. Namaste.

DO NOT judge your appearance based on how you look in a Zoom meeting or FaceTime call. It’s horrifying. DO NOT neglect using a filter unless you have hired a professional team of lighting, makeup and hair people. Otherwise you will spend the entire 45 minutes noticing how much you look like your grandmother, envisioning a virtual visit with the plastic surgeon…or a therapist.

DO NOT attempt to paint your own toenails. I’ve always done my own nails, and I can still twist myself into a pretzel to reach my little pinkie toes however it no longer saves any time or money when I end up in PT afterwards. Spend the $30 on a pedicure, or you’ll be spending $300 on a Theragun or massage.

DO NOT use a mirror with magnification greater than 2x. It’s helpful to apply eye liner or tweeze a rogue brow hair, but I’ve made the mistake of using a 10X mirror while wearing 3X reading glasses and I saw the reflection of an elderly Yeti. I’m certain that makeup mirrors were the masterminds of dermatologists in order to drum up business.

DO NOT try on clothes after a big lunch and definitely not after 5 PM. It will not be a “Happy” hour. When you bring home a shopping bag excited to try on your new outfit or get the urge to organize your closet…ignore the temptation. Leave it untouched till the next morning. Wait for good lighting, a skinny mirror, an empty stomach and fresh lipstick before you judge or do a fashion show for your partner or friend. As for bathing suits – do a spray tan, dim the lights, repeat self-affirmations, and immediately put on a cover up.

DO NOT wear painful shoes. There’s a French saying that translates to “One must suffer for beauty”. I’m not French…and I have my Grandmother’s arthritic toes. If you can’t make it to the mirror in the shoe store without grimacing, throw them back in the box and run. The salesperson who tells you they will “wear in” is a con artist. No one looks sexy while limping, and torturous shoes can ruin a night… and except for formal events, sneakers are in!

DO NOT skip dessert. When I restrict sweets I just crave them more. If you eat a healthy diet, a small piece of chocolate or a scoop (or two) of ice cream is worth the calories. It’s not worth getting in a funk over a few pounds up or down. I consider my daily sea salt chocolate caramel medicinal.

DO NOT say yes to something when you really want to say no. Just because someone asks you to do something doesn’t mean you have to. I never regret helping a friend in need, or going to a special event, but forcing yourself to do things that cost too much, involve too much travel time, or makes you spend time with people you don’t care about isn’t worth the trouble.

DO NOT live for your children. Remember the days when you couldn’t wait for them to grow up and give you some peace and quiet? That time is now. Cherish your kids (and grandkids if you’re lucky), and spend as much time with them as they tolerate, but use your days to do things you love and make room to see friends so you won’t be crushed when your grown up kids want some space. They’ll appreciate you more if you’re not smothering them.

DO NOT give up your dreams even if that means defying some rules. It’s never too late to try something new. If we’ve learned anything these last couple of years, there are no guarantees. Take risks …hopefully the kind that won’t involve breaking a hip! Go on a bucket list trip to the Maldives. Wear something sexy. Move to another state. Learn to paint, or bake or fly a plane. Or even go gray (even though I think I’d rather jump out of that plane.) And don’t feel guilty if you just feel like sitting in a chair with a book, scrolling through TikTok or bingeing a show. Taking time for your self and not doing much of anything can feel like doing something very worthwhile. We’ve earned it.

COVID…With a Chance of Meatballs

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Last February, my pantry was pristine and my near empty fridge looked like the “after” on Netflix’s The Home Edit. Pellegrino bottles were perfectly aligned with labels facing forwards, a few coconut yogurts sat in a row next to a carton of eggs, the crisper drawer held lemons and limes for my cocktails, and the door was stuffed with assorted condiments.

I had enjoyed the culinary arts since my days as a single gal in NYC, but after 20 years of rotating the same 10 dishes for dinner for my growing boys, (reserving a plate for my husband to microwave after his commute) cooking became more of a chore than a passion. Our neighborhood gourmet club had fizzled out due to lack of interest. I quit my job as head chef when we downsized to an apartment in NYC. It was time to let someone else do the cooking. Our empty nest was clean and sleek, devoid of children and ingredients. Most nights, we ordered in or went out.

All that changed in March when rumors of the pandemic began to spread and supermarket shelves emptied like they were filming this fall’s reboot of Supermarket Sweep. I unashamedly hauled my granny cart to Whole Foods to grab what was left — a 5-pound bag of rice, jars of generic sauce and some ground turkey. There wasn’t a frozen vegetable to be found, and I wondered aloud to the masked shopper next to me, “ Why are boxes of lasagna sheets the only pasta left on the shelves?” I wasn’t too worried — I thought the panic and stockpiling would be short-lived. I went home and made a pot of turkey meatballs for dinner and froze the leftovers just to be safe.

A few days later, my husband was feeling fatiqued. I hoped it was a winter cold. I washed my hands, tied a bandana around my face and went to gather more basics. I scored some jarred Italian tuna, a box of gluten-free pasta, bags of frozen ravioli and eggs. Then I hit the farmers market for winter vegetables, and turned them into a hearty soup for my husband and dropped off a container for our neighbor Nick, a single dad who was also feeling ill.

A visit to Urgent Care the next day had no definitive answers, as testing was scarce, but he was told to assume he had Covid-19. We began our quarantine, cancelling a trip to Florida for my Dad’s 95th birthday. Days later, I felt achy and started coughing. When I lost my sense of smell and my taste it was obvious we had Coronavirus. At least I felt secure that I had some food prepared, even though I was afraid to dig into my stock. Instacart had no timeslots. Neither of us could go out. Most restaurants were closed for delivery. I didn’t want my sons anywhere near us. I was anxious. But we needed nourishment so I defrosted the precious supplies and hungrily ate the meatballs.

My friend Nancy went to a local butcher shop and ordered me a package of ground turkey and some sliced chicken breasts that was sent up alone in the elevator. I threw on a mask to run down the hall to retrieve my treasure. I felt like I’d picked the winning door on Let’s Make a Deal when the elevator opened with my brown-paper wrapped bundle on the floor. It was my only connection with the outside world. Feeling better mentally and physically, I made another batch of meatballs, with the bonus of leftovers to stuff into the small freezer drawer.

Watching the frightening news of the spread of the virus, and being isolated from friends and family had me craving comfort food – something about eating a humble meal of meatballs drowning in tangy sauce and topped with parmesan cheese, reminded me of childhood, family and home. It evoked memories of my grandmother, Alice, in her cramped Queens kitchen, mixing and chopping meat without a measuring cup or YouTube. I could picture her chipped pots and could practically smell her onions browning, even though I actually smelled nothing due to the Anosmia from Covid. And just like my granny, making meatballs for me was stress-less. I didn’t need to make a long list of ingredients, follow a recipe or measure anything.

As I recovered, I rejoiced when a food delivery time slot opened. I ordered enough groceries to last a couple of weeks while we continued to quarantine, and without the ability to shop daily nothing was tossed. I always teased my mother about the tiny mystery packages of leftovers in her Florida freezer. Now, it was a personal contest to see what I could reuse and reconfigure into another meal so I wouldn’t have to venture outside. I made soups and salads with leftover vegetables and chicken parts and the surplus from Chinese take-out was saved to make fried rice. Stuck at home, I starting watching cooking and baking shows and searched the Internet for new recipes. I pulled out the old scrapbooks where I’d kept my favorite recipes with their pages smudged with drops of oil. Looking at my handwritten recipes for family favorites made me realize I missed the ritual and creative outlet I got from cooking. Prepping and cooking in my kitchen made the apartment finally feel like a home during the months of isolation.

As grocery stores re-opened I experimented with exotic dishes, adding more seasoning and salt to entice my dulled taste buds. It actually improved my dishes. I enjoyed having some structure in the day, creating meals for my husband and me as we spent so many hours trapped together. And every week, I made another batch of my favorite dinner – meatballs.

Once restaurants reopened over the summer, we ventured to outdoor dining. I wanted to support the local businesses and frankly, I began to tire of the obligation of everyday cooking again. Our freezer became depleted as we used up the frozen dinners and bags of Trader Joe’s shrimp, dumplings and veggies. My food insecurity disappeared too.

But now, almost a year later, it is cold and dreary again in the North East, indoor dining is not an option, and as predicted, cases are still spiking all over the country. People are posting triumphant photos receiving the new vaccines while others are desperate to score an appointment. We are low on the list. One last container of my homemade meatballs remains in the freezer, but I feel superstitious about eating it. Hopefully, we will get to a new normal by the summer. Until then…I’ll be in my kitchen. I predict Covid with a chance of meatballs.

Keeping Covid Fit With My 5-Inch Personal Trainer

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When my NYC gym closed in March due to Covid-19 I figured the break was a sign to relax. Heck, my grandmother lived to 98 and she never lifted more than a six-pound brisket. After the WHO rudely placed me in the “Older People” category, (at 61!) I sat on the couch surfing Netflix, stress-eating salted caramels and Trader Joe’s peanut butter pretzels. For a couple of weeks I binged on My 600-lb Life which should have scared me into starvation mode but weirdly made me want to eat even more. I had to remind myself that we were aiming to Flatten the Curve, not fatten the curves.

Wearing athleisure 24/7 didn’t motivate me even as my iPhone showed my screen time was up 50 percent and I walked 287 steps that day compared to my usual 7400. I hoped all the cleaning and vacuuming I was doing would count for something.
Then I realized I was more than tired. I was exhausted. My lingering scratchy throat escalated along with debilitating headaches, loss of smell and a cough. I had little energy to do anything more than change the channels with the remote. Instead of a virtual workout, I had a virtual visit with my doctor, who diagnosed “the virus”. As friends were posting their neighborhood strolls on Instagram, I just longed to take a walk other than the one from my bed to the couch without getting breathless. The only sweat I produced was from a fever of 102.

After an anxious week, with a 2-hour trip to the ER followed by the purchase of a pulse-oximeter to help differentiate between levels of panic and oxygen, I recovered. I was eager to get healthy and strong and get my pulse racing for the right reasons. I started with some pre-taped classes, but I burned most of my calories jumping up to move my iPad from the floor to the dresser each time the instructor switched to a standing position. I banged my leg on the footboard and spent too much time fixated on a stain on the carpet.

A younger tech-savvy gym buddy did a spreadsheet of live Zoom classes so we could support our favorite instructors and stay connected. I signed in for a Barre class with Kimber (rhymes with limber). Wearing reading glasses while working out was a challenge, but it helped to see the shrunken image of my instructor and get a better peek into everyone’s personal spaces. I waved to the tiny squares with Ali and her baby in NC, Gail in NYC and Alex, back in London with her toddler and puppy. In preparation for a Yoga class with Mike, I even changed out of the Lululemon leggings I’d been wearing for three straight days. I spread out my sky-blue mat, which had been delivered by Amazon and apparently deemed an essential item. I prayed no one would notice the bra I had hastily flung on the floor while changing and hustling to Venmo my on-screen miniature instructor.

Finally I broke down and hopped on the Peloton planted in the middle of our extra bedroom. I admit that I was peeved when my husband bought it last year and intruded on my esthetics. But as I pedaled, an eight-inch, perfect ten instructor with a six-pack and a playlist shouted at me to get in shape. Now it’s the only way to get my heart rate up besides an episode of Homeland.
With some help from my millennial aged son I figured out how to watch classes with an almost life-size person on some SmartTV apps, however I don’t always get sound. And sometimes that person freezes in the middle of downward dog.

There are plenty of challenges. But I’m making it work. I woke with twinges in my thighs and muscle cramps in my butt yesterday. But this time I wasn’t concerned – I had earned them.