The inevitable has happened.  The insidious process has reached its conclusion.  The final step has been taken, and the journey is over.  I can deny it no longer.   I have become my mother!
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Despite our self-righteous cries as young girls that we will never be like her, one day we look in the mirror, and there she is, peering back at us.

This should not be shocking.  Certainly, our own aging process was genetically designed to parallel hers.  Mine started in my twenties with the appearance of the first prematurely gray hairs.  Which, by the way, I used to pull out.  But this only works for so long unless you prefer bald spots to gray patches.  So, I stopped pulling and started dying.

Familiar patterns of lines and wrinkles begin to emerge.  The threat of a double chin avoided with just a touch of liposuction.  Recognizable facial expressions and gestures.  You catch yourself in mid-sentence and realize that you are about to say something that is exactly what she would have said.  Something you swore you would never say.

And the list of similarities goes on.  But in my case, the ultimate surrender was The Beach!

Two blogs ago I attempted to evoke your sympathy by revealing my deprived childhood and how I never went to summer camp.  But there was compensation in the form of weekend family trips to the ocean.

My father oversaw the food.  He would cook roast beef and make potato salad and start the sandwich preparation early in the morning.  Coolers and jugs and beach chairs, blankets, toys, and towels would be loaded into the trunk of his latest used car.

This was accompanied by hats and shirts, and changes of clothing.    Heaven forbid we should get a chill from wearing our wet bathing suits.  (Weren’t bathing suits supposed to get wet?)  We were embarking on a fifteen-minute drive to Coney Island with enough gear to travel the Alcan Highway!

I was happy.  My brother was happy.  I think my father was happy.  The only one who was miserable was my mother.  My mother intensely disliked the beach!

Her attitude was a complete enigma to me.  And so contrary to my own.  I was thrilled to be at the beach.  I loved the sense of freedom.  I loved the sun, the gentle waves, collecting shells.   I loved playing in the sand and burying my brother, wishing I didn’t have to dig him out.

My father seemed content.  He swam, then relaxed and read the newspaper.  And where was my mother while all of this was happening?

Where she always was during these forays.  Covered from head to toe and sitting under an umbrella.  Occasionally she could be coaxed to wade up to her knees, but after five minutes, she would scurry back to her hiding place.

There was nothing about the beach that pleased my mother.  She hated the sun.  She hated the feel of the sun lotion.  She hated the sand.  She had a special facial expression that she reserved for when some of it got in her food.  Sort of a cross between seeing a dead animal with its guts hanging out and biting into a lemon.

Her favorite part of the day was when it was time to go home. Then she could get into a shower and wash away all the gritty unpleasantness.

Could this beach-hater be my real mother?   I was convinced that I had been adopted.
When I reached adolescence and could travel to the beach on my own with a group of friends, I think my mother ceremoniously burned her bathing suit.

My own romance with beaches did not end in childhood.  Any opportunity to spread a blanket, I was there!    Domestic beaches, foreign beaches, man-made beaches on a lake, it didn’t matter.   Beach vacations were the best.  Despite being enveloped in total inertia, you could still feel like you were doing something.  You were at the beach!

When my children were young, I took them to the beach, and once again, the trunk of the car was packed to overflowing with stuff!

It was always my dream to own a house at the beach, which we did for 10 happy years.  My own children now grown, I lived my fantasy of walking with my dogs every morning and watching them joyfully take on the challenge of the crashing waves.  It was back to being easy.  Dogs don’t require a lot of stuff!

Then my husband suggested moving to Florida.  When I could finally speak again, I told him that one of my conditions was that we live near the beach.   And so, we did.

But gradually the universe began to shift.

Now on the beach, you will see a woman, covered in protective clothing, with hat and sunglasses, sitting under an umbrella.  She does not appreciate the sun and has slathered herself in sunscreen.  She fears skin cancer and more brown spots.  She might venture into the water for a quick swim but feels safer under the shelter.

She hates how the sunscreen causes the sand to stick to her skin.  She tries to open a bottle of water and is annoyed that there is sand all over the cap.  But for the sake of her husband, she endures.  Finally, he’s ready to leave, and she is once again happy.

​This woman could be my mother.  But it’s not.  It’s me.  The transformation is now complete.

Due to the overwhelming response to the prior essay, I felt strongly that a follow-up was in order.

First, I’d like to thank all of you who came to my aid in my quest for The Perfect Dress.  I had no idea that so many astute shoppers and fashion influencers of a certain age were signed on to my blog.  And I was even more gratified to discover that you actually read what I write!

Shortly after posting my last essay, my mailbox became filled with recommendations for shops I hadn’t yet tried or heard of, and on-line fashion sites I should explore.  This was an eye-opener.  For someone who had considered herself a savvy shopper, I realized that I still had a lot to learn.

And second, kudos to the person who, despite my warning that the contents he was about to read would be unrelatable to his gender, proceeded anyway, and took the time to respond.  Again, I was gratified.  So, yes, Virginia, I do have male readers!  In fact, his email to me was so full of truth and good humor, it would be selfish of me not to share it with you.  So here it is.

“While I may be one of the few males who enjoys your blog, I totally understand because B has exactly the same problems.  So, I live with it.

"She is also looking…for the PERFECT hat.  The brim must be just right, not too big, a “small face” brim not covering her eyes.  And just the correct fit when she looks to the right.  Or the left.

"At that time, I either go and sit down in the store or go out to the car.  I do that because I know that we will have to stop at almost every rack to fondle the items on it.

"Then I know she will come out with nothing and ask me to take her somewhere else to start all over again.  This will continue until we have to go home and feed the dog.

"I don’t understand why we bought her a car just to sit in the driveway.  I’m sure her car would enjoy these shopping trips.

"I DO NOT!”

The male perspective made me smile for two reasons.  One, because it was funny, and true, and two, because it reminded me of something I heard a long time ago from Joy Behar when she was doing stand-up.  At the time she was between marriages and said her next perfect husband would be a man who would sit in a chair and hold her purse while she shopped at Loehmann’s.  (Damn, I miss Loehmann’s!)

So, thanks to your support and encouragement, I persevered.   And I’m pleased to report that I found it.  The Perfect Dress!

Of course, it was at the last place I thought to look.  A local fashion discount boutique whose clothes look great on French models, but not so terrific on those of us with Russian peasant ancestry.  Yet there it hung, a Boho Chic dress, my size, in all its unconstructed glory!

I rummaged in my purse for my list of requirements.

• Collar:  Not quite a 10 according to my no-collar rule, but acceptably small with a wide, flattering V neckline.
• Sleeves:  No problem!  Long sleeves that can easily be rolled up to elbow length.  Or not.
• Length:  Maxi
• Shape:  Loose but far from reminiscent of a circus tent.
• Frilly vs. Tailored:  A decisive absence of flounces, ruffles, and bows!
• Color:  Peacefully solid!  A soft orange somewhere between a cantaloupe and a creamsicle.  Definitely a personal favorite, both the color and the food items.
• Fabric:  Soft, cool, non-clingy.  Minimal wrinkle potential.
• Price tag:  Affordable!

I whisked it into the dressing room, convinced that all this perfection was too good to be true, and when I tried it on I would look like a giant carrot.  But no, if the mirror was accurate, I looked very much like a woman wearing The Perfect Dress!

P.S.  Want to know the best part? On sale – 50% off!

My perfect dress and I will be taking off the month of August.  So, watch this space for summer reruns.  See you in September with some fresh thoughts, and a new book!
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