I had an epiphany the other day. (No, not THAT Epiphany. There were not three wise men present. In fact, since I was by myself at the time, there were exactly zero wise men present.)
What happened was, an immutable fact of life just popped into my head. It occurred to me that young adults want their clothes to make them look good. Middle-aged people want their clothes to be comfortable. And senior citizens want their clothes not to kill them.
Let me explain. The other day I was doing something I’ve done about a zillion times in my life: tie my shoes. Ever since I learned how to tie my shoes at the age of four (or maybe 14; I can’t remember for sure), it’s been a pretty basic procedure. I bend over and grab both laces, pull them tight, and then tie them into the classic shoelace bow. It usually takes no more than about three seconds per shoe.
What happened was, an immutable fact of life just popped into my head. It occurred to me that young adults want their clothes to make them look good. Middle-aged people want their clothes to be comfortable. And senior citizens want their clothes not to kill them.
Let me explain. The other day I was doing something I’ve done about a zillion times in my life: tie my shoes. Ever since I learned how to tie my shoes at the age of four (or maybe 14; I can’t remember for sure), it’s been a pretty basic procedure. I bend over and grab both laces, pull them tight, and then tie them into the classic shoelace bow. It usually takes no more than about three seconds per shoe.
Well, this particular time, after I pulled the laces tight and began tying the bow, my fingers slipped and the laces unraveled. So, I patiently started over. After pulling the laces tight once again, I began to tie the bow. When I was about halfway through, I suddenly realized I was out of oxygen. I tried to take a breath, but since I was bent over reaching down toward the floor, all my internal organs were squished and it wouldn’t work.
To explain it in simpler terms, I had to abort the mission and come up for air. The last time I used the phrase, “come up for air,” I was about nine years old and playing with my friends at the town beach.
As I sat there and looked down at my still untied laces, while taking a couple of deep breaths, I said to myself, “Are you kidding? It felt like I was suffocating because I was … tying my shoe?!”
Then, a couple of days later I was wearing a pair of jeans I had recently purchased. When I bought the pants, they were labeled “regular fit,” as opposed to other jeans in the store that were labeled either “slim fit” or “relaxed fit.” I knew “slim fit” was out of the question, since those jeans are designed for 20-year-olds who are 6-foot tall, 130 pounds, and want to look like they’re wearing blue Spandex. When I got home, I tried on the “regular fit” jeans, and they seemed fine.
To explain it in simpler terms, I had to abort the mission and come up for air. The last time I used the phrase, “come up for air,” I was about nine years old and playing with my friends at the town beach.
As I sat there and looked down at my still untied laces, while taking a couple of deep breaths, I said to myself, “Are you kidding? It felt like I was suffocating because I was … tying my shoe?!”
Then, a couple of days later I was wearing a pair of jeans I had recently purchased. When I bought the pants, they were labeled “regular fit,” as opposed to other jeans in the store that were labeled either “slim fit” or “relaxed fit.” I knew “slim fit” was out of the question, since those jeans are designed for 20-year-olds who are 6-foot tall, 130 pounds, and want to look like they’re wearing blue Spandex. When I got home, I tried on the “regular fit” jeans, and they seemed fine.
Well, the following Saturday afternoon, I was wearing my new jeans, sitting in the living room and writing on a notepad. I dropped my pencil and it rolled under the couch. So, I got down on my hands and knees to retrieve it, and when I reached my arm out, straining to get the pencil, it suddenly felt like a vise was squeezing my lower abdomen. I won’t go into details, but if church choir practice had been scheduled for that evening, I would’ve sat in with the soprano section.
The “regular fit” jeans should have had a warning label: “These ‘regular fit’ jeans are actually ‘slim fit’ if you’re a geezer. Wear them at your own risk.”
That’s when I had the epiphany: my clothes are trying to kill me!
The “regular fit” jeans should have had a warning label: “These ‘regular fit’ jeans are actually ‘slim fit’ if you’re a geezer. Wear them at your own risk.”
That’s when I had the epiphany: my clothes are trying to kill me!
At the same time, I finally understood and appreciated the way seniors dress, which I admit I made fun of for many years. But now, having seen the light, I plan to wear the same wardrobe, even when I go to work, regardless of any snide comments from my coworkers. It is now time to dress like the Wise Men at the original Epiphany and don the official senior citizen uniform: sweatpants and Velcro sneakers!
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