Mother has three closets jammed with clothes. Last time I counted, she had thirty-two outfits with tags. Last Sunday when she stopped by to score a meal, she was sporting this stylish ensemble. Since it was a tad nippy, she’d donned the purple, long-sleeved shirt I’d given her when she got caught without a sweater at my house several years ago. As you can see, it’s extremely roomy. Paired with these charming cropped pants she’s been wearing for at least ten years, she was really styling. For a finishing touch, she slipped into ankle-high nylons and loafers, accessorized by her pedometer, since her current obsession is walking.
I couldn’t help remarking, “Mother, you do know that’s a hideous outfit, don’t you?”
“I don’t care! I’m old enough to wear what I want to,” was her reply.
“Okay, but you know since you’re past eighty, people may get the impression you have Alzheimer’s.” wasting some more conversation here.
“Well, that’s their problem!”
I need to find her a shirt that says, “Despite appearances to the contrary, I am not demented.”