I saw an old woman wearing a see-through blouse earlier today. No camisole underneath it, just a big ol' white bra. It wasn't the first thing I noticed as she made her way towards the bus stop I occupied, however; she had a rather rolling gait, the kind associated with long-term sea captains and the slightly overweight and balance-disinclined elderly.
No, I didn't notice her top was anything other than floral until she sat down and the sun shone through the thin fabric just right. Perhaps she didn't know it was see-through when she bought it. I've gone to work wearing what I thought was an opaque black top over (thankfully) a black bra, albeit one I hadn't planned on showing my co-workers, so I know it could have been completely unintentional.
But as I stood at the bus stop, obliquely watching as her bosom settled onto her rounded midsection, something I should not have been able to see, I wondered if she did know. Perhaps she was playing her "old lady card," the one that allows her to burp and fart in public, open a very loud piece of candy in the middle of church, and mix plaid and paisley in a decidedly un-fashionable way. You know that card, don't you? It's the one she doesn't even know she's playing, because she's just not quite all there any more.
Or maybe her eyesight isn't that good or the lighting in her closet was off, and she just didn't know, and would be horrified to find out what had happened.
But I personally would like to believe that this little old lady looked in her closet this morning, checked the weather, and said "Fuck it, it's hot today." Because really, when I'm old, I don't want to care what people think of me either.
Although I'll definitely be wearing a black bra.
The Price of Swank
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