Pant Suit at the Prom

You’d think that by the time a person turns 60 she would have finally figured out how to get dressed. By this time she should possess a personal style. She should instinctively know how to look like a million bucks at the drop of a party invitation in the mail. You’d think that wouldn’t you? You would be wrong. Oh, some of you out there may have gained this kind of confidence. Me, not so much. I’d just like to show up in the right outfit one of these days.

Take last Saturday night. I was a fashion fiasco. At a gala. We left the house with me feeling sexy and snazzy in white linen pants and a poison-apple green linen jacket. I thought my drop-dead gorgeous red sandals and matching toe nail polish more than qualified me for doggone dressed-up. Until we got to the event. The other women —all 400 other women, to be precise — were be-sequined in off-the-shoulder, above-the-knee, cleavage-plunging cocktail dresses. Apparently I missed this memo. I spent the evening trying to look nonchalant and unwrinkled.

This wasn’t the first time that I’ve put a fashion foot forward —and tripped. It all started with high school grad (American translation: senior prom). All through school, I fantasized about being a fashion designer. And so, when grad rolled around, it seemed like a great opportunity to get creative. So, I went out shopping for a personal statement. And instead of heading to Eaton’s department store for one of those filmy pastel ball gowns with Empire waists, I went to my favorite hippy boutique, the Unicorn, and bought a pant suit. Yes, a pant suit. C’mon! It was lace! And it was way cute. Really. It was very fancy. I looked adorable. But NO ONE else wore a pant suit, lace or otherwise.  I totally stood alone, like the proverbial cheese. My date spent the evening keeping his distance.

In hindsight, I should have gone with the flow in a flowing gown. But I didn’t understand until years later that I much as I like to think that I’m a non-conformist, I just don’t have the stylistic savvy to take this to its ultimate sartorial expression. In other words, I’m not going to be featured in Vogue any time soon and no one was writing a social notes column in the New York Times about what I wore to grad.

It was easier when there were rules. Like in the 80s when we working girls followed the “Guide to Being Preppy” or the “Dress for Success” handbooks. You couldn’t go wrong with a blazer, a white blouse and a grey skirt with black pumps. I gave in and followed the guidelines for a while and actually wasted my youthful slenderness on drab, matronly dresses with Peter Pan collars and tuck pleats. But the uniform started to chafe after a time. I found myself terribly dissatisfied and seeking a look something more akin to Annie Hall. But not even when I picked out one of my Dad’s ties to wear with all the wrong things did it dawn on me that only Diane Keaton can look like Diane Keaton. Dang!  

Maybe there are rules after all that I just don’t know about. Look at Hillary Clinton, for example. Do you think those pant suits happen by accident? Not on your life! She’s got people. They’ve got rules. And they’re telling her, “Yes, ma’am, that pant suit is perfect for your meeting with Netanyahu. And it really doesn’t make your butt look big. Honest.”  Or Kate Middleton. Do you think she’d have captured the world’s adoration if she dressed like, oh, say, I don’t know, Camilla? Not likely. She too has people.

Maybe I need people. I sure needed people last Saturday night. Only I want people who know the rules for pulling off a Diane Keaton.