My Holy Grail

My Holy Grail ©

January 1, 2013

I must be getting old.  That's the only explanation.  It's not like I never saw it coming……  But when did it happen?  When did I turn the corner?  Was it the first time I griped about some kid with bass thumps blasting from speakers bigger than his lowered Toyota?  Maybe it was when I embarrassingly referred to the band Limp Bizkit as Soggy Muffin?  Or was it the time I made a reference to Phyllis Diller to a roomful of youngsters who all turned to look at me and ask in unison, "Who is that?" 

My first clue should have been when I ventured out to buy a new pair of jeans.  At the suggestion of my daughters, I stopped in to one of those trendy little mall clothing shops; you know the one - where mass-produced apparel is cleverly marketed, boutique-style, to girls seeking to express their individuality by dressing like every other girl.   (I know, what was I thinking?")

While I have a strict policy about not shopping from the junior's department, with few exceptions, I allowed myself to be persuaded.  They had assured me that this was where anyone who is anyone shops.   Besides,  there were a lot of basic wardrobe pieces on display in addition to the super-trendy fashions in their front window, so it felt safe enough. 

Who would have suspected that size 6 jeans in women's clothing is nothing remotely close to a size 6 in one of those places?  Not only was it disappointing, it was mortifying.  In the harsh light of the fitting room, trying to squeeze my forty-year-old thighs into that pair of jeans,  I knew something terrible was happening.   Something irreversible, beyond my control.  It was a betrayal of the worst kind.  Betrayal by my own body.   I was aging.  I was never, EVER, going to fit into jeans sold anywhere but the old-lady department at Sears or JC Penney.   So I bought a skirt.

And that's the way I've learned to live…….carefully avoiding those things that are better left to the young girls.  I make adjustments, settle for compromises, and accept it all with quiet dignity.  Ok, maybe not so quiet.  I will admit I enjoy poking fun at women my age who are clinging desperately to youth, sharing a wardrobe with their sixteen-year-old daughter.  (Just an FYI, ladies, unless your sixteen-year-old dresses like a White House Press Secretary, this is not recommended.)  And I will admit that I enjoy the occasional indulgence of a half-gallon of ice cream all to myself because, after all, what does it matter now?

But sometimes I have one of those moments that reminds me just how out of place I seem to be these days.  In every way.  From my music (Am I the only one who listens to Bob Seger anymore?)  to my resistance to the technological age (Little Women and Gone With The Wind just don't read the same on a Kindle) to my wardrobe.

Nothing makes me feel prettier or more feminine than long, full skirts, with yards of soft  flowing fabric, or simple, classic designs.   Think Grace Kelly in Rear Window or Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina.   My general rule of "If you wore it the first time it was in style, you're too old to wear it the second time" doesn't apply to anything that would have looked magnificent on Lana Turner or Barbara Stanwyck.  You get the picture.

Sadly, my own wardrobe isn't quite what I would like for it to be.   Most of my things are the classics; pencil skirts and tailored jackets.  But the girly-girl in me longs for those ultra-feminine dresses of whisper thin silk, crepe de chine, and chiffon.  Let's not forget the silk stockings and garter belts.   Those types of pieces are terribly hard to find.   It is almost depressing to shop anymore.   Everything looks so NOT feminine. Either barely a yard of fabric,  boxy-looking, way too short, made of unbelievably ugly patterned fabric, or like it's supposed to be underwear.  Each shopping expedition brings me another revelation about what it means to be an elegant gown in a world of yoga pants. 

I recently experienced a resurgence in my desire to fill my closets with those wonderfully feminine styles reminiscent of Hollywood starlets - and to acquire that divine symbol of feminine grace, my holy grail.  The peignoir.   I've had a life-long fascination with beautiful peignoirs.  Full sweep gowns of the softest silk, that swirl around me as I walk, luxurious clouds in pale delicate colors.  Think Eva Gabor in Green Acres….wearing those wonderfully glamorous gowns trimmed with marabou feathers to cook flapjacks.   (You don't get more sophisticated than that!)

But try finding a peignoir.  Truly, I've looked everywhere, and what I found depressed me.  Even a walk through Victoria's Secret looks like the result of someone's raid on a hospital surgical supply closet and a football locker room.     I don't get it - am I the last one on earth who appreciates what it means to dress like a lady?   Or could it be that I've crossed that threshold into the realm of thinking nothing new could possibly be as good as what I grew up with?

I decided long ago that I will be buried in an ivory silk peignoir.  One  with a full six foot sweep, the bodice trimmed in delicate lace accented with tiny seed pearls.   I think my fascination can be explained by my childhood years that were dedicated to watching classic horror films.  A devoted fan, I watched years of vampire movies in which beautiful young heroines arose from their beds on windy, moonlit nights to go investigate danger lurking in the shadows.   They made such a dramatic appearance with their long hair whipping wildly, their nightgowns billowing fantastically around them, that I vowed I would be buried in one of those marvelous gossamer ensembles, just in case I was able to come back and haunt anyone.

How can anyone take me seriously as an apparition if I am wearing a flannel jersey and drawstring pants?   Even if I can't come back to haunt, it is still my intention to be buried in attire suitable for such occasions.    Truth is, I want to wear it now, not just in my eternal slumber.   I want to sleep in it now, all nestled in a silky cocoon.  I want  to lounge in it, the epitome of elegance with matching fluffy marabou slippers.  I want to make flapjacks in it, a la Eva Gabor.   

I'm afraid it may take awhile to find my peignoir, as  they are soon to be, if not already, extinct.    I think searching for it in department stores is pointless, as none of the classic, glamour puss fashions seem to be making a comeback anytime soon.   And I don't see the  younger generation developing a passion for styles they have only seen in old movies, starring people who have been dead longer than they have been alive.    Even at Saks, when I asked where I might find a peignoir, the twenty-something salesgirls turned to look at me, their heads on a swivel, and asked, "What is that?"

And again, I am forced to face that this is no longer my era.   It makes me more than a little sad to think that dressing is a dying art.  Gone are the days when women did not leave the house without their "foundation garment,"  and trousers were something women wore at home.   Maybe Donna Reed was the only housewife in America who vacuumed her living room in pearls and high-heeled pumps, but I think she had it going on.