Something strange happened to me when I turned 40. I became a girl. I was that Tom-boy on the school playground, who when forced to wear a skirt by her mother snuck a pair of shorts under it. After all, I couldn’t play on the monkey bars in a skirt. Now could I?
I didn’t experiment with makeup in high school. I was too busy running off to ride a horse, or three. My standard high school outfit was army surplus camo pants, a black t-shirt and ratty sneakers. Hey, it was the 80s. But I’m sure something in my mother died every day I went out of the house like that.
Why 40? I’m not sure, but maybe it’s because your forties is a magical decade. After all 42 is the answer to THE question. Sorry. I digress. Anyway, I finally had the money to buy shoes in those department stores where I bought my suits. There seems to be an unfortunate rule in shoe fashion. The more expensive the shoe the more comfortable it is. Spending all day in a set of heels became something to look forward to and not a torture.
And none of it would have happened without the perfect little dress.