Does what you wear matter? Should it? Why?
We’re traveling and have limited cooking opportunities. So, this morning I went out to get us come “grub.” Stopped at the local donut shop.
And – there she was.
Long, long hair, all twisted in curls. Mini skirt, leather gladiator sandals, sheer (very) blouse loosely covering a lacy brassiere leaving very, very little to the imagination. And wow – did she generate attention. But probably not the kind she (or anyone, for that matter) would want. Why? Because she looked – well, foolish. Ridiculous. After all, she was at the north side of 75 – and then some.
I am the FOUNDER of AfterFiftyLiving.com. Okay? For the record, I say that I am the last person to “discriminate” against anyone – especially based on age. So, is that what I’m doing – right now – discriminating against this poor soul? Based on her age? Really? Would I be as “concerned” if she were 50 years younger? And that, I conclude, is the point.
She’s NOT 50 years younger. She is what she is. She’s dressing, acting, presenting inappropriately.
Her attire was “inappropriate” – it’s that simple.
And I know what you’re going to say. How “dare” I decide (for others, no less) what’s appropriate.
But hold on. Inappropriate behavior is a signal. It’s a signal that something is mis-firing.
I am not asking that this woman surrender her mobility to a walker and cane – truly misguided symbols of aging! No. Rather, I ask that those who care about this person recognize that her behavior is signaling that something just may be seriously amiss.
Does she have an infection that’s clouding her judgment? Is she suffering from the onset of an illness, a disease that could be ominous?
Someone, somewhere needs to help – because this was, well, a strong, loud, and very public signal.
Let’s stop congratulating ourselves as being “correct” (politically or otherwise) by letting things “be.” Oh my, look at that lady. Well yes, she looks a little different. But she has a right to. Is THAT what you think? She has a right. No, she’s not committing a crime. And she’s not imposing on anyone. But she’s screaming out for help in her own way.
And me? I walked away. I didn’t help. I was admittedly flustered. So, instead I chose to be “politically correct.” And yet, I know that I was a chicken. I was busy “congratulating” my political correctness – and, at the same time I turned my back on a poor soul begging for help.
Shame. Shame on me.