Presentable Frump: A Life in Sensible Clothing

I’ve spent my entire life trying to dress properly, and it has gone about as well as you’d expect for someone who once wore maternity clothes for a decade, even though pregnant only three times

Photo by Old Youth on Unsplash

A few weeks ago, at Walgreens, at four in the afternoon, mind you, I found myself behind a young woman wearing pajamas. Not “maybe pajamas,” but full‑on fluffy clouds and snoring sheep. Assuming she’d dragged herself from her sickbed to pick up a prescription, I politely backed up to give her space. I needn’t have bothered. She was holding a “Congratulations on Your Wedding” card and told the cashier she was running late for the ceremony.

I understand the appeal of saggy pants, flip‑flops, and yes, even pajamas. But personally, I’ve always tried to follow the rules of proper dressing. Comfort was my second priority, somewhere below “don’t embarrass the family.”

In the ’60s and early ’70s, I did not wear tight tie‑dyed shirts announcing “Groovy” across my chest, nor did I squeeze into bell-bottoms wide enough to smuggle Pink Floyd. Instead, I wore tent-like maternity tops and bottoms, despite being pregnant only three times. Post‑delivery weight was apparently a permanent souvenir.

I continued my quest for clothing appropriateness into the next decade. When one of my sons married in the late ’80s, I wore beige to his wedding (and kept my mouth shut), because that was the rule for mothers of the groom. The marriage didn’t last. In hindsight, perhaps I should have worn fuchsia and shouted, “NO!”

My point, and I do have one, is that we can dress within the limits of what’s expected and decent without looking dowdy. Although judging from old photos, I did resemble the queen of frump. But at least I was presentable frump.

Now, even though the fountain of youth has dried up for me, I still aim to look respectable, though comfort has climbed several notches. I try for some small iota of style and decorum.

Take a recent meeting. I wore what I considered stylish, mature pants with a little oomph: bright orange, in a size larger than I care to admit. I still haven’t lost my pregnancy fat, even though my children are eligible for AARP. The pants did have a built‑in compression chamber, which I appreciated.

When I stood to speak, tall, or as tall as shrinking allows, I felt proud. Another member leaned over and whispered, “Judi, wait a minute.” I assumed she was about to compliment how thin I looked.

Instead, she discreetly peeled a sticky label off my orange rear that read, “Extra wide stretchy f I suppose it’s nice when your clothing offers generous give. I just didn’t expect it to give that information to the entire room.”