Over 50? Don't wear this...
Midlife is a tricky time when it comes to getting dressed. Here's how not to do it
We know the drill. Stylish linen-mix palazzo pants. A Breton top. A well-cut denim jacket. Perhaps a witty gold pendant featuring cherries, or your name. Canvas trainers with slightly raised soles that cost £165 from somewhere French. A roomy straw tote bag that can take you from beach to bar, because that’s what women over 50 do, all the time. On breezier days, it’s a calf-length grey dress, £280 from somewhere French, with stylish flat ankle boots and coloured woollen tights, this time with a witty, chunky necklace.
These are the rules for the middle class, mid-life woman, according to every fashion editor on the planet. If you fail, your options are a floral sleeveless polyester top under an acrylic waterfall cardigan worn with saggy leggings and gold flip-flops from Primark, or Toast dressing - the expensive label beloved of women who want to look like orphaned pottery teachers, in neck-fastening corduroy pinafores and mustard-coloured linen droopery.
I used to have no problem getting dressed at all. I was a size 8-10, and ran a vintage boutique. I wore 1940s suits, 1950s summer frocks, 1930s evening dresses and failing that, everything half-decent from a charity shop fitted perfectly well, so I had a wardrobe stuffed with second-hand Karen Millen and minor designer-wear.
I also had more money (it was the Blair years, everyone had more money). There used to be a boutique in Manchester called Oyster. It was the size of a broom cupboard and stocked insanely expensive designer wear. The owners had the brilliant idea of hosting ‘shopping evenings’ where they served miniature bottles of POP! Champagne with straws, and everyone immediately got hammered and spent a fortune. Which is why I woke up with a hangover one morning and found a hot pink full-length net skirt hanging from the wardrobe door. Reader, I never wore it.
I also bought a pair of Vivienne Westwood shoes that were poster-paint green with six inch heels and heart cut-outs. I was tottering through Euston in these, admiring my commitment to the sizzling edge of fashion, when a passing teenage girl shouted, ‘Easy, love!’ and she and her friend fell about laughing. I had Gucci snakeskin boots (£60 from Cheshire Oaks shopping outlet), Prada and Marc Jacobs shoes, and a lung-crushingly tight, vintage Thierry Mugler dress that made me look like a very short Maleficent. Basically, I loved clothes, I loved shoes, and I was prepared to put up with short-term physical agony to look the way I wanted to look.
But the past is a foreign country, no more so than when it comes to body shape. Now, I am 52. I am more a squashy 12-14 than my past elfin self, and I live in rural Argyll. (I used to live in Manchester, then Bath and spent a lot of time in London. Every day was a catwalk).
I thought ‘something has to change.’
Most days, I see nobody but my husband and the dogs, so my clothing choices are a dull but practical cycle through baggy jeans, jumpers and wellies. I looked at myself recently, wearing floral Crocs (say what you like, they’re ideal for taking dogs out to wee in the rain), a bobbly orange jumper that the spaniels had clawed holes in, and paint-stained jeans, and I thought ‘something has to change.’
This, however, is where it goes wrong. Because while I still have many of my fancy clothes - in fact, I still buy them, every time I see something nice in a charity shop - it turns out I can’t wear them anymore.
When I complained about not knowing what to wear over fifty on Twitter this week, several people said ‘wear what you like! Don’t dress for anyone else!’
It’s more of a gently deliquescing Maris Piper
I know they meant well, but they miss the point. Most of us are not ‘dressing for anyone else’, unless we’re employed as a dominatrix or a circus clown. We are intending only to dress for ourselves, in the way we’ve always enjoyed dressing - the problem is, we’ve changed. Unless you’re Liz Hurley, the post-menopausal body is no longer the clearly delineated hips-waist-boobs hourglass (or pear, or ironing board) of our youth. It’s more of a gently deliquescing Maris Piper, where one section blends seamlessly into another.
Jeans no longer sit on our hipbones, because we can no longer find them. The choice now is, allow your proving loaf to rise and spill over the waistband, like that picture of pizza dough that was left in a bin overnight, or clamp yourself into Mum Jeans, which fasten all the way up to your boobs and compress your folds inside a dense, denim corset. Floaty dresses do not skim the boobs and fall straight to the knees, they meet resistance, and end up looking like someone gave up halfway through putting on a duvet cover.
And sadly, high heels are no longer bearable pain for the sake of an elongated leg - even if your ankles are still like the finest stemware, heels tend to encourage swelling feet, so at the end of a long night, they resemble fairy cakes bursting from their little paper cases. And that’s leaving aside the blisters, calf pain, bunions and general lack of balance.
PTA mum, used to be a Gen X raver
This, then, is why I asked for help. Not so I could have people shriek, ‘you go, girl! You do you!’ but because I no longer know how to do me. I don’t have hundreds of pounds to spend on chic European designer-wear, cut for the older woman. If I see another Boden wrap dress with a retro floral print, I will weep with boredom. I have several, and they might as well have ‘PTA mum, used to be a Gen X raver’ printed round the hems.
Finding flattering jeans that fit is like seeking the golden hare in Masquerade. But I swear to God, I’m not ready for shapeless tunic tops over leggings and sensible rubber-soled Chelsea boots, or the kiss-of-death chunky necklace. I don’t want a ‘soft, draped scarf to conceal my neck.’ I don’t want ‘fun, quirky’ hippy garments that make me look as if I’m running a falafel stall at the Earthwise festival, before doing a chakra reading for my upstairs neighbour who slightly pities me.
If you’re tall and slim, it’s easier - draping is a viable option, clothes hang well, you can rock those palazzo pants and cropped denim jackets and look like a French woman who might have a younger lover, heading to the market for boulangerie and asparagus, rather than Mrs Pepperpot on holiday. However, I am 5’2 and getting shorter, so most ‘chic’ clothes make me look like a four year old in a dressing up box.
Speak for yourself, I am NOT the shape of a Maris Piper
I know, obviously, that all this will have many women muttering, ‘speak for yourself, I am NOT the shape of a Maris Piper,’ and I envy them. But for those who are, it’s ever harder to find outfits that are flattering, easy to wear, and not £850 for a jumper. This week, as I told Twitter, I tried ‘French schoolgirl from 1922’ - a black pinafore dress over a grey long sleeved top, black opaques and black lace-ups, which I enjoyed wearing, but it made me feel a bit like a strange old lady pretending to be a child.
Then I did ‘star command’ - tight black trousers and a black top, with a cap-sleeved burgundy jumper featuring a gold, sequinned star. I saw fit to team this with wedge-heeled knee high black boots, and felt very much that I should be scanning Jupiter’s moons from the observation deck, and murmuring, ‘there’s something out there, Captain.’
I seem to be trapped in a fashion corner of weird cosplay, and regardless of all the supportive people saying ‘wear what you want!’ the problem is, I no longer know what I want. Being over fity is not the same as being thirty - and while I’m a raging feminist, I’m also aware that to many, there is something faintly grotesque about older women aping the style, shape and sexuality of a 25 year old, once our fertile years are gone. I want to say ‘unless you’re Madonna,’ but…nope. Even the Queen of Pop is subject to the laws of biology, much as she might object.
‘Attractive’ for older women is not boobs-out, legs-akimbo, no matter how much we might wish it still was. All the tired old phrases about midlife dressing - ‘comfortable in yourself’, ‘chic and simple’ ‘elegant and casual’ exist because they’re true. Trying too hard is acceptable when you’re thirty. When you’re sixty it carries an air of tragedy.
Not wonder so many go down the ‘when I am an old woman, I shall wear purple’ route, with jolly kaftans and wrapped turbans and giant beads. Good luck to the Madame Arcatis of Hampstead - but I’m not the type. I greatly admire Iris Apfel, but I absolutely could not be arsed, at 101, to climb into her wild outfits. I can’t even be arsed at 52.
Basically, we don’t know what to wear, so we end up making ‘safe’ choices and feeling bored with both fashion and ourselves. Maybe that’s just how it has to be, unless we spend all the fuel bill money on well-cut designer separates.
Still, in a bid to at least identify what isn’t wearable in midlife, I have enlisted the help of Twitter to list the clothes we should chuck out. I’m no closer to finding the perfect style - but at least I don’t own any of these.
Captain’s Table tops
Coined when I helped my Mum clear out her wardrobe a few years ago and expressed horror at a sparkly, sequinned top. I said, ‘It’s a bit Captain’s Table’, and she has never, ever forgotten. Anything that makes you look like a Texan widow on a Bahamas cruise enjoying the evening show from a Michael Bolton impersonator - chuck it. Light bouncing off an upholstered chest is never a look.
Wolf fleeces
Thought kindly supplied by Twitter friends. Loved by Midwestern Moms who enjoy dolphin ornaments and devout prayer. Fleeces are terrible altogether, but fleeces printed with spiritual-looking animals are a candidate for instant burning.
Tunic dress over coloured leggings
From the back, a four year old enjoying her first day at nursery. From the front, a terrifying vision of a sly old lady dressed as an innocent child. Never do this.
‘Slacks’ with creases
The sort of trousers your mum’s neighbour wore in 1988. Elasticated. Comfy. Probably in a shade of brown or maroon, with poly-cotton stretch and a weird seam down the front. Some have the added bonus of stirrups, in case they fall off your feet. As advertised by a gorgeous 38 year old at the back of the Sunday magazines,
Stilettos
‘Did you know Marilyn shaved a bit off one heel to make her bum wiggle?’ Yes. These are sex shoes. They have no place in uniforms, office wear, or normal dressing. They instantly date any outfit, and will put your legs and feet in screaming agony within ten minutes. Nobody is looking at you, scuttling along like Marge Simpson and thinking ‘sex-bomb’, believe me.
Waterfall cardigan
Essence of soccer mom. Unflattering, joyless, miserable outerwear, made by people who despise older woman and want only to bundle them away in woolly frills, never to be looked at again. Just don’t.
Tie-dye anything
Any outfit that features lightly clinking silver beads and crosses, smocking, Indian-looking tassels, tie dye, full-length frills or some sort of hair ornamentation tells the world, ‘I have a crystal shop and smell of cheap incense.’ That’s fine if you do. If you don’t live life by your aura readings, you may want to think again.
Trouser suits
Hey there, Phil Collins. Never believe anyone who suggests a trouser suit is a good look for an older woman. At best, you’ll look like Hillary Clinton addressing a half-empty hall in Florida, at worst, like a Nat West supervisor about to sack your trainee. ‘Oh, wear it with the sleeves pushed up and trainers.’ If you want to look like you’ve come as Miami Vice for Halloween, yes.
‘Ditsy’ print floaty dresses
Every high street store loves these. You know why? Because they’re cheap, made from Indian cotton that crumples when you glance at it. Anyone in Ditsy print looks as if she should be singing into a well, with her hands clasped. Avoid.
Pashminas
If you want to look like the grandmother of the bride, a pashmina is perfect. If you don’t, never wear one. Even Sloanes stopped wearing these years ago. See also fascinators. No one in history has ever looked good with a deely-bopper spray of feathers poking from a headband.
Leopard print
I know it’s an ‘autumn trend’ every year, but honest to God, wake up. It doesn’t make you look youthful and edgy, it makes you look like Pat Butcher seducing the postman. I will make an exception for faux fur coats, but anything else is just Blackpool sleaze and the biggest lie the fashion industry ever told.
Purple
Forget the poem. Purple will make you look batty, possibly lonely, and the sort of woman who writes to the local paper every day about ‘dog muck’. This also includes mauve, lilac and maroon. Nobody suits purple - apart from the late Prince. But you are not Prince. And nor am I.
I’d love to know what you do wear (and it might help me.) Please do comment below…
LOCHED UP: My Life In Rural Scotland
Driving away from home (and back)
I didn’t pass my driving test until I was 47. I had to, or I’d have remained Andy’s prisoner, only able to visit a shop when he took me, and only able to storm off after a row if he drove me wherever I wanted to storm off to. People find it hard to believe that we have no public transport at all - and sure, if I wanted an eight mile walk (this is not an exaggeration) twice a week, I could get the bus to Oban and back, and then walk the eight miles home again.
Angus would get on the train to Oban
If I get the train to see my family, it’s a twenty-six mile drive to the tiny branch station, which has chickens scratching about on the platform, and a falling-down wardrobe of free books. There used to be a dog called Angus who lived there. He would get on the train to Oban, and eat all the dropped crisps off the floor, then the station master would intercept him at Oban and put him on the train back. Angus sadly died of old age earlier this year, but I like to think he had an extremely happy life.
There’s a coach to Glasgow from Inveraray, (a 45 minute drive from our cottage) - that takes two hours and the road is so bendy it’s like the Buzzer Game, and also the most nauseated I’ve ever felt if you don’t count a trip on a Swedish lobster boat with a cocktail hangover.
The upshot is, I spent a year living here unable to drive or go anywhere alone. I was once contacted by a BBC producer to see if I’d like to go on the radio and discuss something or other.
I said ‘I’d love to, but I can’t get to the studio, unless my partner will take me.’
There was a long pause, then she quietly said, ‘Do you need…help?’
I didn’t, unless you count ‘yes, teach me to drive because I’ve failed my test in the city three times.’
The most patient man alive
I was eventually taught by the wonderful Neil, part-time fireman and the most patient man alive. I’d witter and stall and shriek with terror, and he’d say ‘Ooook there, just get yourself comfortable, now. Peep and creep’, in his lovely, rolling Highlands accent. I still say ‘peep and creep’ to myself approaching blind corners.
Finally, on my fifth attempt, I passed - possibly because driving in our local town is like a gentle potter round Trumpton, but with less traffic - and now I spend a lot of time driving on the single-track loch road, which is 16 winding miles, give or take, to get to the Co-op.
On the way, I pass bronze age standing stones, cairns, fields of sheep, cows, horses, valleys, mountains, an ancient castle that once belonged to the Kings of Dalriada, the graves of the Knights of Malta (they think), several alpacas and one small pub.
When I first passed my test it took me 50 minutes of white-knuckle crawling, slowing to 5mph on bends and pulling over to shake with fright if another car appeared. I’m now far more relaxed and enjoy the unfolding scenery, until I meet another vehicle and have to reverse into a passing place.
In the summer, this happens a lot because tourists don’t understand passing places, and they sit in their cars like recalcitrant little beetles, waiting for either an act of God or the other person to reverse. I can do that if there happens to be a place close behind me. If not, I have to crawl backwards round a bend, or up a hill, hoping I won’t meet a lorry coming the other way.
The usual greeting here is a raised finger to acknowledge the other vehicle as they finally pass, a little ‘fellow gentlemen of the road’ sign of masonry. I don’t do it if they make me reverse far, I just glare violently at them and wish them ill, in their ‘happy trails’ camper vans and canoe-toting Volvos. The worst is when I’m on the loch side and there’s mere inches between my car and plunging into the icy water. People have done this, and I’m terrified I’ll be one of them.
When it’s quiet though, I like meandering along, listening to PM on the radio, like the middle aged person I was always meant to be. I feel extremely grown up, unless I have the dogs with me, in which case, Larkin will stuff his head under the driver’s seat with misery and only stops howling if you scratch his ears, but you can’t reach them because they’re attached to his head. So instead, I grab whatever random chunk of him I can stretch backwards to touch and sing ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ till he stops.
I know its sneaky little ways, and hidden bends
Many, many people hate the loch road, but I’m comfortable winding along it now. I know its sneaky little ways, and hidden bends, and I’m always prepared to slam on the brakes if a deer leaps out of the trees (this happens alarmingly often).
If I could just keep driving, like Thelma and Louise, I’d be fine, but I always reach the shops eventually, and then I have to park. That’s a whole other nightmare - but I can’t go into details in case Neil happens to read this. In which case it’s fine, I never scratched anybody’s Audi, and I’m very good at spatial awareness and reversing into a tight spot. It’s just my car that struggles.
RECIPE OF THE WEEK: AUTUMN GINGER BISCUITS.
Obviously, you could make and eat these biscuits in spring. But they do lend themselves very well to a cup of tea and a roaring fire after a crunchy-leafed walk. Also, they’re speedy to make, which is perfect when you’re suddenly seized by the need for biscuits, which happens to me quite often.
Makes 12 -14
Ingredients
25g butter
65ml syrup
25g muscovado sugar
grated zest of 1/2 orange
1 tbsp of orange juice
90g self raising flour
1/2 tsp ground ginger
pinch of salt
2 balls of stem ginger in syrup, drained and chopped small (optional)
Method
1 Preheat oven to 180°C (160° Fan). Butter a baking tray.
2 Put a saucepan over a very low heat, and melt together the butter, syrup, sugar and orange juice/zest.
3 Let it cool, while you sift the flour into a bowl, with the ginger and salt, and then blend in the wet ingredients with a wooden spoon, till you have a smooth mixture.
4 Toss the stem ginger pieces in a spoon of flour (a plastic bag is useful for this) then stir them in.
5 Use two spoons to deliver blobs of mixture to the tray, one to drop and one to press and spread slightly. Leave room to expand between each one.
6 Bake for 12-14 minutes, till golden, then leave on tray for a minute before putting on a wire rack to cool. Or just eat them immediately, like I did.
Top tip: Use a spoon run under hot water to measure syrup, or it’s like The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
Thank you for reading Decommissioned. I really do appreciate you taking the time and I hope you enjoy it.
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I am Flic's Mum. She Mari Kondo-ed my wardrobe to great effect and the 'Captain's Table remark about my glittery top is now my mantra when shopping. However, I must admit this comes from someone who when she (that is I) was thirty went to party in that London and wore a long black top that said 'OH!' on it in massive silver sequins. I was introduced to John Cleese. He looked me up and down, gave me a pitying glance and moved swiftly away. Of course, since then I have worn nothing but Jil Sanders pale grey cashmere and almond coloured silks.
This is so good, I came back to it for seconds just now. Love. 💯