Well, not literally . . . I’m not Buddha, after all.

But while down with a 48-hour bug earlier this week — garbed in pajamas and a bathrobe, and without sufficient energy to do more than change the TV channel — I had ample time to contemplate a number of things. While most of those thoughts don’t bear repeating (in fact, they didn’t warrant much consideration the first time around), I did have one realization about my life in retirement that I thought I might share with you: the importance of comfort.

I was always one who subscribed to the “dress to impress” philosophy. Working in Washington, D.C., law firms in the years of business suits, girdles and panty hose, I accumulated a fairly substantial professional wardrobe. Weekends were more casual, of course; but in those days, going out to dinner or a party meant dressing up. Does anyone else remember cocktail dresses?

At the time, there was a woman living in my apartment building who was my role model. I recall her bragging when she reached her 92nd birthday; yet I had thought she couldn’t be more than 80, if that. She was a beautiful woman, vibrant and always impeccably dressed as though she might be headed for a board meeting, or lunch at an elegant restaurant. And I decided that that’s how I wanted to enjoy my golden years.

Yeah . . . right.

To begin with, I didn’t take into consideration the fact that everyone ages differently. That beautiful nonagenarian was obviously genetically blessed; me . . . not so much. I hadn’t counted on the aches and pains of advancing years, or the possibility that I might have inherited a few ailments from my father’s side.

I also didn’t foresee leaving the craziness of Washington for the quietude of the southern countryside, where “dressing up” means wearing jeans without rips and a tee shirt without a logo.

So I’ve adapted. No, that doesn’t mean I regularly hang out in PJs or sweats. But now that I spend more time at home than going out, I’ve come to realize that the dog doesn’t give a damn what I look like, so I may as well relax. I’ve decided that age must have its compensations, so that comfort has finally become more important than fashion.

And since I tend to reduce most of my thoughts to writing, I’ve even dedicated a little verse to my newfound philosophy. I call it, brilliantly, “Comfort,” and I herewith inflict it upon you as your reward for having read this far:

*. *. *

COMFORT

I cannot bear
A bra to wear
While sitting ‘round the house.

And shoes, I claim,
Are much the same …
It’s comfort I espouse.

Though jewelry
Adds revelry
When on the town I roam,

Those rings and things
Discomfort bring
Whilst hanging out at home.

And ‘round my waist
I have no taste
For anything that’s fitted.

To wear a belt,
Or jeans so svelte,
I’d have to be dim-witted.

Elastic waists
Are more my taste,
And slippers for my toes.

Loose clothes, I find,
Don’t squeeze or bind,
Avoiding further woes.

I still admire
Couture attire,
On movie stars and others.

But as for me,
I do not see
Their worth for us grandmothers.

We’ve had our years
Of joys and tears,
Careers and raising kiddies.

We’ve earned the right
To some delight,
Now that we’re all old biddies.

Now is the time,
While in our prime,
To say goodbye to vanity,

To seek instead
A calmer head,
And things that bring us sanity.

To find repose
In looser clothes,
Sans jewels, belts or makeup,

To comfort find,
And peace of mind,
Avoiding mental breakup.

It’s comfort here,
And comfort there,
And comfort all around.

It’s what I need,
My soul to feed …
Before I’m in the ground.

*. *. *

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/1/25