A letter about feeling like yourself again

At 68, I nearly missed my 50-year school reunion because I couldn't find a dress. My oldest friend said something I'll never forget.

The invitation had been sitting on my kitchen table for eleven days before I finally replied.

Fifty years since we finished school.

Fifty.

I kept looking at that number and wondering how it was possible that the girl in the old school photograph had become a woman of sixty-eight.

My friend Denise had been organising the reunion for months. A Saturday lunch at a lovely restaurant, a few old photographs on display, and as many of our former classmates as she could track down.

She rang me twice to ask whether I was coming.

Both times I said I hadn't decided.

What I didn't tell her was that I'd spent three separate afternoons trying on dresses and couldn't find a single one I wanted to wear.

Not because I had nothing in the wardrobe.

Quite the opposite.

I had plenty of dresses.

But every time I put one on and looked in the mirror, I found myself thinking about the eighteen-year-old girl those women remembered.

And how different I looked now.

Eventually Denise rang again.

“Maggie, what on earth is stopping you?”

I admitted that I was worried about what to wear.

She went very quiet for a moment.

Then she said something I have thought about almost every day since.

“Maggie, we're not coming to see who still looks eighteen. We're coming because we managed to get through fifty years, and we're still here to tell the stories.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Because she was right.

And somewhere along the way, I'd forgotten that getting dressed for an occasion was supposed to be something enjoyable.

I am writing this because I suspect there are other women my age who have stood in front of a wardrobe full of perfectly decent clothes and felt exactly the same way.

Not young enough for half the dresses in the shops.

Not ready to dress as though we've stopped caring, either.

And wondering when something as simple as choosing a dress became so complicated.

How I ended up dreading invitations

When I was younger, I loved getting ready to go somewhere.

I would lay my dress out on the bed the evening before, decide which earrings looked best, and spend far too much time getting my hair right.

My mother used to tell me I could spend an entire afternoon getting ready for a two-hour party.

She wasn't wrong.

But I enjoyed it.

There was something lovely about having an occasion to look forward to.

Somewhere in my sixties, that changed.

Invitations began to make me slightly anxious.

Not because I didn't want to see people.

Because I never seemed to have anything that felt right to wear.

The dresses that looked fashionable were often too fitted through my middle, or cut in places I hadn't been comfortable showing for years.

The more sensible ones were sometimes so shapeless that I felt as though I'd borrowed somebody else's clothes.

And the few lovely dresses I already owned had been hanging untouched in the wardrobe because I could remember exactly what bothered me about each one.

One had a waistband that became uncomfortable after lunch.

Another had sleeves I spent the afternoon tugging down.

And a third was such a dark, heavy-looking thing that I couldn't imagine wearing it on a beautiful Perth spring afternoon.

So I started making excuses.

I'd tell people I wasn't sure whether I could come.

I'd say there was something I needed to finish at home.

And sometimes, I simply decided that staying home was easier.

Looking back, that seems rather sad.

All those lovely afternoons I nearly missed because I couldn't make peace with the woman looking back at me in the mirror.

What I had wrong about looking my age

Denise's comment made me think about something I'd never properly questioned.

Why was I trying so hard to look like a younger version of myself?

Of course I don't look eighteen anymore.

I'm sixty-eight.

I've raised children, watched them raise children of their own, worked, worried, laughed, travelled and lived through more things than that young girl in the school photograph could possibly have imagined.

And somehow, I had begun thinking that getting older meant I was less entitled to look lovely.

That I should either try to dress younger or accept that my best years of wearing pretty clothes were behind me.

Neither felt right.

What I really wanted was quite simple.

A dress with some shape, but not one that clung to every part of me.

Something pretty, but not so fussy that I would spend the whole lunch arranging it.

Sleeves I felt comfortable in.

A length I wouldn't need to think about when sitting down.

And a colour that reminded me I was still allowed to enjoy getting dressed.

That was the dress I began looking for.

The blue floral dress I kept coming back to

I'd been browsing Perth Boutique one evening after dinner when I came across a dress called Georgina.

There were several floral versions, but the light blue one caught my attention immediately.

It's a lovely painterly mixture of soft blues, cream, white and little touches of warm gold.

Not a neat, repeated pattern of identical flowers.

More like the colours of a watercolour painting, with the flowers blending into one another.

It reminded me of a painting my mother used to keep in the hallway, all blue and cream flowers in an old wooden frame.

I always liked that painting.

And I liked this dress for much the same reason.

The colours were soft and pretty without looking pale or washed out.

But what made me look more carefully was the cut.

The Georgina has a rounded neckline, short sleeves, a softly gathered upper section and a flowing A-line skirt.

There isn't a stiff-looking waistband cutting straight across the middle.

The fabric falls away gently below the gathered section, giving the dress some shape without making it look tightly fitted.

And there are discreet pockets at the sides.

I know pockets aren't the most romantic thing about a dress.

But after years of carrying my glasses and tissues in my handbag, I have come to appreciate them enormously.

I looked at the photographs again.

Then I ordered it.

I didn't expect anything particularly dramatic when it arrived.

I've ordered enough things over the years to know that what looks beautiful in a photograph doesn't always look right on you.

But I liked the colours straight away.

And I liked that it looked like a proper everyday dress, rather than something that required a special occasion to justify wearing it.

The first time I tried it on

I tried the Georgina on in my bedroom, with the afternoon sunshine coming through the window.

I'd already decided I wasn't going to judge it by whether it made me look twenty years younger.

I simply wanted to see whether I liked it on the woman I am now.

The neckline was the first thing I noticed.

I've never particularly liked anything too high around my neck, but I also don't want to feel that I'm forever adjusting a low neckline.

The rounded shape looked neat without making the dress seem severe.

The sleeves covered the tops of my arms, and the soft gathering gave the upper part a little definition before the skirt fell away.

I turned sideways, as I always do.

Then I sat down on the edge of the bed.

Stood up again.

Walked over to the window.

And then, because I'd noticed them in the photograph, I put my hands into the pockets.

I laughed at myself.

There I was, sixty-eight years old, feeling quite delighted by a pair of pockets in a floral dress.

But it was more than the pockets.

It was the way the dress looked like something I would actually enjoy wearing.

Not something chosen to hide every part of me.

Not something bought in the hope that I might somehow look thirty-eight again.

Just a lovely dress.

For me.

The morning of the reunion

The reunion was on a Saturday, and naturally I woke up earlier than I needed to.

Old habits.

I made tea, opened the back door and looked at the weather.

It was one of those lovely Perth spring mornings when the air still has a little coolness in it, but you can tell the afternoon will be warm.

I laid the Georgina over the dining chair while I got a few things organised.

My good earrings.

A little cream cardigan in case the restaurant was cool.

My usual comfortable sandals.

And a handbag that I've carried to more family lunches than I can remember.

Nothing extraordinary.

But for once, I wasn't standing in front of the wardrobe wondering whether I should change three more times.

I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be looking forward to an occasion instead of worrying about getting dressed for it.

When Kate rang to ask whether I was ready, I told her I was.

She sounded surprised.

“Already?”

I told her not to make a fuss.

She laughed.

Apparently she remembers rather too many mornings when I changed outfits four times before leaving the house.

What happened when I saw Denise

The restaurant was already full of familiar voices when I arrived.

There were little groups standing around looking at old school photographs, and every few minutes someone would recognise somebody else and let out the sort of delighted laugh you only hear when people haven't seen each other for decades.

I felt nervous walking in.

Of course I did.

Fifty years is a long time.

Then Denise spotted me.

She came straight over, threw her arms around me and said, “Maggie Whitfield, I knew you'd come.”

I started laughing.

And she said the second thing that has stayed with me since that day.

“You still have exactly the same laugh.”

Not the same figure.

Not the same hairstyle.

Not the same face.

The same laugh.

And suddenly I remembered that these were people who had known me before I'd become anyone's mother, grandmother or sensible older woman.

They remembered the girl who laughed too loudly in class and got told off for talking.

That girl was still there.

Just with a few more years behind her.

Nobody asked why I didn't look eighteen anymore. We were far too busy being pleased that we'd found one another again.

I can't tell you how relieved I felt.

All those evenings I'd spent worrying about the reunion seemed rather foolish now.

But I suppose that's how these things work.

Sometimes you don't realise what you've been afraid of until the thing you've been avoiding turns out to be lovely.

The lunch I nearly missed

We sat around a long table, and within ten minutes everybody was talking at once.

There were stories about teachers we'd forgotten, school excursions that had gone badly wrong, and the boys who thought they were terribly impressive in 1976.

Someone had brought an old photograph of our final school year.

We passed it around the table, pointing at faces and trying to remember names.

There were women who had become teachers, nurses, business owners and grandmothers.

Some had travelled all over the world.

Others had stayed close to home.

Every one of us had lived a different life.

And here we were, laughing together over things that had happened half a century ago.

At one point Denise asked where I'd found my dress.

She said she liked the colours.

I told her it was called the Georgina and that I'd found it at Perth Boutique.

She wanted to know whether it came in other prints.

I said it did.

Then somebody brought out the dessert menu, and the conversation moved on to far more important matters.

Which was exactly how it should be.

I hadn't gone there to have people admire what I was wearing.

I'd gone to see old friends.

And for once, I wasn't spending the afternoon thinking about whether my dress was sitting correctly every time I moved.

What I realised when I got home

I came home that afternoon with a handful of new phone numbers, a photograph of the whole group and a promise that we wouldn't wait another fifty years before getting together.

I took my cardigan off, made a cup of tea and settled into the armchair for a while.

I'd been out longer than I'd expected.

And I was still smiling.

Later, I laid the Georgina across the chair before hanging it up.

I looked at that blue floral pattern again and thought how close I'd come to missing the whole day.

Not because I was ill.

Not because I had some important appointment.

But because I'd been worried about how I would look in a room full of women who remembered me at eighteen.

It made me wonder how many other invitations I'd nearly declined for similar reasons.

How many times I'd convinced myself I needed to look different before I was allowed to enjoy something.

And how much effort I'd spent trying to dress for the person I used to be, rather than the woman I am now.

At sixty-eight, that seems like a rather exhausting way to live.

I'm glad Denise didn't let me get away with it.

Three things I've learned about dressing after 65

One. Looking lovely doesn't have to mean looking younger. I spent too long choosing clothes based on whether they made me look like an earlier version of myself. Now I want things that look right on me today, with sleeves, a neckline and a shape I actually enjoy wearing.

Two. A good dress should let you forget about the dress. I don't want to spend a long lunch adjusting my waistband or wondering whether the fabric is pulling across my middle. I appreciate soft gathering, a flowing skirt and enough room to sit and move comfortably.

Three. The people who love us are rarely thinking about the things we worry about. Denise remembered my laugh. The others remembered old stories, teachers and silly school adventures. Nobody was sitting there measuring how much we'd changed.

That last one was worth more than anything I could have bought for the occasion.

It's a lovely thing to be reminded that there is more to us than the way we look.

And I think we sometimes forget it as we get older.

Why I chose the light blue floral

I've always liked blue.

But this is a little different from the navy and plain blue things I've worn for years.

The flowers have a soft, almost painted appearance, with shades of blue blending into cream and white, and little warm golden details throughout.

It gives the dress some interest without making it look overly busy.

The rounded neckline is simple, the sleeves are a practical length, and the softly gathered skirt has the movement I look for in a spring dress.

And because the colours are fairly gentle, I don't feel obliged to buy special shoes or jewellery to go with it.

My usual sandals and a cardigan work perfectly well.

I like that.

I've spent enough money over the years buying things that required three other purchases before I could wear them.

These days I prefer a dress that works with what I already own.

About the price

I want to mention the price because it was something I checked before ordering.

The Georgina is currently listed at $49.95 AUD at Perth Boutique, with a displayed comparison price of $166.50.

That's an advertised reduction of seventy per cent.

A considerable saving, and one worth checking properly rather than buying simply because something has been marked down.

The dress is described as having lightweight, breathable fabric, a rounded neckline, short sleeves, soft pleats, a gently flowing A-line skirt and discreet pockets.

It comes in sizes S through 3XL, with several floral colour options.

I would check the measurements before choosing a size, especially if you sometimes buy different sizes depending on the cut of a dress.

The upper part still needs to fit properly, even when the skirt has a little more room through the middle.

Perth Boutique currently lists free delivery within Australia.

For me, the appeal was finding a dress that looked right for a special lunch without being too precious to wear again.

Because I have no intention of leaving the Georgina hanging in the wardrobe until the next school reunion.

I hope we're all still around in another ten years, but I don't think I need to wait that long to wear a pretty dress again.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sitting in my kitchen with a pot of tea between us, and you told me you had a special occasion coming up but were thinking of staying home because you didn't know what to wear, I'd understand completely.

I've been there.

Standing in front of the wardrobe, trying on things I bought years ago and wondering why none of them feels right anymore.

Looking at photographs of myself when I was younger and forgetting that the woman I am today has done an awful lot of living since then.

And quietly convincing myself that perhaps it would be easier not to go.

But I nearly missed a beautiful afternoon with women I'd known for fifty years.

All because I thought I needed to look different before I could walk into the room.

That's the part I'd like you to remember.

You don't have to dress like you're twenty-five.

And you don't have to give up wearing lovely things because you're sixty-five, seventy or older.

There is a rather nice middle ground.

Clothes that feel comfortable, look pretty and suit the life you're actually living.

The light blue floral Georgina is worth looking at if that's what you've been searching for.

Have a look at the photographs, check the size guide and see whether the soft gathering and flowing shape appeal to you.

I can't promise it will suit everyone.

But I like the idea of choosing a dress because it makes me look forward to getting dressed, rather than because I'm trying to hide how much I've changed.

And the next time I receive an invitation from somebody I haven't seen in years, I hope I remember what Denise said.

We're not getting together to see who still looks eighteen.

We're getting together because we're still here.

And that is something worth celebrating.

At 68, I've stopped trying to dress for the girl I used to be. I'd rather enjoy being the woman I've become.

Maggie