As I rolled the garbage bins to the street for pick-up before I wake in the morning, I remembered to fetch my mail from the mailbox. I always go through it and throw ninety-nine percent of it in the garbage. Mostly catalogues. I get lots and lots of catalogues. I started to throw this one in the bin, but something stopped me. I caught a glimpse of the girl on the cover. I am that girl, I thought to myself. Then I laughed. I used to be a little like that girl except I was a blonde. The tall and thin part I had down right. Maybe I was just tall and skinny. No matter.
The charm of getting old is that you are allowed to remember yourself as the beauty you wish you’d been. In his old age, my husband confessed his major attraction to me in the first place. Those long, strong legs, he said. He always had that little grin in his eyes when he remembered. I laughed as I always laughed when he said something funny. I liked it when he was being funny. It never mattered that he was being serious. What’s the difference? I always thought that.
Why the hell didn’t Eileen Fisher make this for me forty years ago? I would have worn it with such style, such grace, such beauty. A willowy, elusive kind of beauty that frightens men and enrages women. Except I would have slipped that long bone cigarette holder between her slender fingers. Ah, there I have it just right.
Oh well, it’s gettin’ late. I ought to let the dogs out and go on to bed, I reckon.