An illustrated letter about stepping out of the background

AT 68, A WOMAN AT THE SUPERMARKET ASKED ME WHERE THE TINNED TOMATOES WERE. MY SISTER SAID, "WELL, YOU DO DRESS LIKE YOU'RE ABOUT TO STACK THE SHELVES."

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday morning, in aisle seven, between the pasta and the canned vegetables.

I was standing there with my list, trying to remember whether I already had lentils at home, when a pleasant woman of about forty touched my elbow.

"Sorry to bother you," she said. "Do you know if you've got the diced tomatoes with basil, or just the plain ones?"

I opened my mouth to say I hadn't the faintest idea. Then I looked down at myself.

Navy cardigan. Navy trousers. A plain white top. Sensible black shoes. A lanyard round my neck, because I'd come straight from my volunteer shift at the library, and I'd forgotten to take it off.

I looked, in every respect, like a woman who works at a supermarket.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "I'm just a customer."

She went pink, apologised twice, and hurried off towards the end of the aisle. I stood there for a moment holding a tin of chickpeas, feeling oddly winded.

That afternoon I told the story to my sister June over the phone, expecting her to laugh. She did laugh. Then she said something I didn't expect.

"Well, Mags, you do dress like you're about to stack the shelves."

"I dress sensibly."

"You dress like you're trying very hard not to be noticed," June said. "And it's working."

I told her she was being unkind, and changed the subject to her tomatoes, which have had aphids since August. But after I hung up, I stood in front of my wardrobe for a very long time.

A WARDROBE DESIGNED TO DISAPPEAR

I'll describe that wardrobe honestly, because I suspect some of you own its twin.

Four navy cardigans in slightly different weights. Two pairs of navy trousers, one pair of black. A row of white, cream and pale grey tops. One floral blouse I've owned since 2009 and worn perhaps six times. And a single "good" dress in charcoal, for things that require a good dress.

Every piece in there had been chosen for a reason. Navy is slimming, they say. Navy goes with everything. Navy doesn't show the coffee you spill on yourself at the church morning tea. Navy never looks like you're trying too hard.

But standing there after June's comment, I realised there was another reason, one I'd never said out loud. Navy is safe. It lets you move through a room without anybody looking at you twice. Somewhere after sixty, I'd decided that was what I wanted.

I don't think I made that decision on purpose. It happened slowly, the way your hair goes grey. One year I was buying a red jacket for a work function. Fifteen years later, I was being mistaken for supermarket staff.

THE INVITATION ON THE FRIDGE

As luck would have it, June had invited me to her bowls club's spring racing luncheon only the week before. It's a big annual affair. There's a three-course lunch, the races on the big screen, a sweep, and, inevitably, women in hats.

The invitation was stuck on my fridge under a magnet shaped like a lemon. At the bottom, in curly lettering, it said: Spring colours encouraged!

I'd planned to wear the charcoal dress with a cream scarf, perhaps the pearls. I'd considered the scarf a concession to spring.

Now I looked at that curly lettering and heard June's voice: you dress like you're trying very hard not to be noticed.

I had a feeling the charcoal dress was going to get me asked where the cutlery was kept.

WHY I'D BEEN AVOIDING BOLD DRESSES

To be fair to myself, it wasn't only about being invisible. There were practical reasons I'd fallen out of love with dresses, especially bright ones.

The first was my middle. I haven't had what you'd call a waist since roughly the Keating government. The bold dresses I saw in shops seemed to come in two kinds: tight and clinging, which showed every lump, or loose and shapeless, which made me look like a bright tent at a country fair.

The second was my arms. I didn't want sleeveless, and I didn't want a heavy sleeve on a warm spring day either.

The third, if I'm truthful, was fear. A bright dress feels like a statement. And I wasn't at all sure what I'd be stating at sixty-eight, other than "she's trying a bit hard, isn't she?"

WHAT I'D GOT BACKWARDS

The turning point came, as these things sometimes do, from a television programme. I was watching one of those old-fashioned garden shows with a cup of tea, and the presenter was standing in front of a bed of fuchsias, explaining why they were so popular in older gardens.

"They look delicate," she said, "but they're tough as old boots, and they flower when everything else has given up."

It's a silly thing to be moved by. But I sat there and thought: that's the kind of woman I'd like to be. Delicate-looking, tough as old boots, flowering after everyone else has given up.

And it occurred to me that I'd been thinking about colour backwards. I'd been treating it as something that drew attention to my body, the bits I'd rather people didn't notice. But a strong colour, worn well, doesn't draw the eye to your middle or your arms. It draws the eye to you. To your face, your smile, the way you walk into a room.

The problem had never been the colour. It was the cut. I needed shape without cling, and cover without heaviness.

FINDING NEILA

That evening I went looking on Perth Boutique, a local shop I'd ordered from before, and scrolled through their dresses with that fuchsia flowerbed still in my head.

The Neila stopped me straight away. It's a pleated maxi dress, and it comes in three jewel tones: cobalt blue, emerald green, and a deep fuchsia pink the shop simply calls Pink. Fine pleats run from the round neckline all the way down to the hem. There's a twisted knot detail at the waist, and layered flutter sleeves over the shoulders.

I read the description twice. The listing says the twist at the waist gives shape, and the flutter sleeves add soft coverage over the upper arms. It describes the fit as relaxed and flowing, with a defined waist, and the fabric as a lightweight pleated material.

Shape without cling. Cover without heaviness. And a colour you could see from the far end of the bowls club car park.

I'll admit I looked at the cobalt blue for a while, because blue felt safe. Then I thought about the woman in aisle seven, and chose the Pink.

THE BOX ON THE BED

It arrived the following week. I opened the box on the bed and lifted the dress out, and for a moment I simply stood there blinking at it.

Against the white quilt, the fuchsia almost glowed. It was very much a pink with confidence, the colour of those flowers on the garden programme, of bougainvillea climbing a fence in late spring.

The pleats were the first thing I touched. They're fine and close together, running in long straight lines from the neckline to the hem. When I lifted the dress by the shoulders, the whole skirt moved, rippling like a curtain in a breeze. It felt light in the hand, much lighter than I'd expected for a full-length dress.

I put it on before I could talk myself out of it.

HOW IT ACTUALLY FIT

I'll be candid, because I'd want you to be candid with me. Every body is different, and fit is a personal thing. But here is what I found.

On sizing, I was between two sizes, and the listing says to choose the larger if you're in between. I did, and I was glad. It skimmed rather than gripped, which is exactly what I wanted.

The twist-knot at the waist is the clever part. It pulls the dress in just enough to suggest a waist, without a belt or anything tight. For the first time in years, I looked in the mirror and saw a shape that went in before it went out again. The pleats then fall away from that point, so nothing clings to the tummy or hips.

The flutter sleeves are layered, so they sit softly over the tops of the arms. They don't feel heavy or hot, but I didn't feel exposed, either. They moved a little when I lifted my arms, which made me feel rather glamorous for a woman standing in her bedroom in stockinged feet.

The round neckline is modest and comfortable. It doesn't plunge, and it gave my small gold earrings and a pendant room to sit nicely.

A practical note: it's a true maxi. On my five-foot-five frame it reached my ankles with a low heel. If you're petite, it may be worth checking the size chart on the listing before you order.

Then I walked down the hall to the long mirror, and I did something I hadn't done in years. I turned in a circle, just to watch the pleats swing out and settle again.

THE MORNING OF THE LUNCHEON

On the Saturday morning I hung the dress on the back of my bedroom door while I had breakfast. Every time I walked past, it caught the light from the window, and I'd find myself smiling at a door like a lunatic.

I wore it with nude low heels, my gold earrings, a small cream clutch, and, after a great deal of debate with myself, a little fascinator with a single cream feather that June had lent me two years ago and never asked for back.

June picked me up at eleven. When I came down the front steps, she put down the car window, looked at me for a full five seconds, and said, "Well. Nobody will be asking you for directions to the tinned goods today."

A DAY AT THE BOWLS CLUB

The clubhouse had been decked out in green and gold streamers, and the back deck looked out over the greens with the big screen set up at one end. It was one of those perfect Perth spring days, warm in the sun with a soft breeze coming off the river by mid-afternoon.

There must have been eighty people there. And, true to the invitation, the room was full of colour: yellow linen, floral prints, an extraordinary turquoise hat with what appeared to be a small bird on it.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like the navy dot in a bright painting. I felt like part of the picture.

June's friends were lovely, and I'd met a few of them before. But this time, something was different. They came up to me. A woman called Beryl asked if she could see the pleats properly, and twirled her finger so I'd turn around. A gentleman at our table, who'd been married fifty-two years and kept reminding us of the fact, told me I looked "like a proper race day lady."

And towards the end of lunch, while we were waiting on the fourth race, a woman I'd never met crossed the whole room to our table. She bent down and asked, a little shyly, "I'm so sorry to bother you. Can I ask where you got that dress?"

Three weeks earlier, a stranger had asked me where the tinned tomatoes were. This one asked where I'd found my dress.

I told her, of course. And I may have mentioned it to June three or four times on the drive home.

I didn't win the sweep. My horse, chosen because her name was Lady Petunia, came second-last. But I came home feeling as though I'd won something else entirely.

THREE THINGS I LEARNED

Blending in can become a habit you never chose. I didn't decide to become invisible. I simply chose "safe" a thousand times over, until safe was all I had. Sometimes it takes a stranger in aisle seven to point it out.

Colour draws the eye to your face, not your figure. I had always worried that a bright dress would make people look at the parts of me I'd rather they didn't. In fact, it did the opposite. People looked me in the eye.

The cut matters as much as the colour. I'd have looked very different in a tight fuchsia dress or a shapeless one. A gentle twist at the waist and soft pleats falling from it made all the difference between "trying too hard" and "looking well."

ABOUT THE PRICE, PLAINLY

I've always been careful with money, and I'm not about to stop at sixty-eight. So here is exactly what I know.

When I'm writing this, the Neila is listed on Perth Boutique at $99.95 AUD, the same price in all three colours. The listing shows a regular price of $333.00. I can't speak to that higher figure, only to what I paid and that I felt the dress was worth it.

It comes in sizes XS to 2XL. As I mentioned, the listing suggests choosing the larger size if you're between two, and there's a size chart on the product page. Delivery was free, with Australia Post, and the shop lists a money-back guarantee. I'd suggest reading their Returns & Refunds page before you order, so you know exactly where you stand.

If fuchsia feels too much for you just yet, the cobalt and the emerald are both strong, lovely colours too. Just promise me you won't choose navy.

WHAT I WOULD TELL YOU IF WE WERE FRIENDS

If we were sitting together on June's back verandah, watching her fight her aphids, I'd ask you a gentle question: when did you last wear something that made someone look twice?

Not because you need anyone's approval. Goodness knows, at our age we've earned the right to wear whatever we please. But because being seen is a quiet sort of pleasure, and many of us have stopped allowing ourselves to have it.

I've kept my navy cardigans. They're useful, and I'm not about to become a woman who wears sequins to the library. But I've stopped reaching for them automatically. Now, when I get dressed, I ask myself whether I'd like to be noticed today. More often than you'd think, the answer is yes.

Like the fuchsias in that old garden, I'd like to keep flowering after everyone else assumes I've given up.

With love from Perth,
Maggie