The Sisterhood of the Granny Pants

Surrounded by 7 naked aging New Yorkers, it occured to me how weird South Florida can be. I have enjoyed my time here so far, despite all the gnashing of teeth before leaving London. I mean, Delray Beach is a lovely place; there's a reason this town is best known for rehab and hospice. It's about the comfort level of, and the temperature of, the womb:

(East Delray Beach, darling:)



But, I digress.
On that Thursday, I had gathered a few hundred pounds of discounted designer clothing and was corralled into the changing room. A massive, communal changing room.

There's something sort of comforting by being surrounded by pudgy naked old women. Mainly, the obvious Schadenfreude (My life may be a mess, but at least I don't look like cottage cheese).

Everything was fine until I tried on a formal dress. An obviously Marilyn Monroe-styled dress (empire waist, two separate boob restraints.) I'm admiring myself in the mirror when the fitting room attendant comes in and addresses all of us:

"DON'T FORGET TO HANG UP THAH ITEMS THATCHA DON'T PURCHASE..."

Then, she looks at me.

" OH HONEY, THAT'S TOO OPEN, CLOSE UP YOUR TOP"

All 12 grannies stare at me. I can see the look of 'My grandson is never marrying a Shiksa like you," on their vicious, shriveled faces.

Mortified, I look in the mirror. I thought that was Acceptable-Cleavage, not You-Should-Be- Ashamed-Of-Yourself-Cleavage. None of them being maternally related to me, I don't recall them having the right to make me feel so inadequate. I blush and immediately start clutching the dress to my chest.

Then, the woman next to me turns me and offers,

"Dahlink, don't vorry about it, it's in fvashion at ze moment."

"Thank you..." I stammer. Conversing with naked old women is beginning to seem normal at this point.

My hero. She's not a day under 85 years old, and (quite seriously, considering I was in Boca Raton and considering her accent) could very well have been a Holocaust survivor. She's now wearing naught but big white granny pants and gold platform sandals. Having survived an atrocity, she's definitely earned the right to wear atrociously inappropriate sandals. Amen, sistah.

I give her an appreciative look, grab all my clothes and flee the changing room.

I'm not sure how I grew up here, but I kind of love that I did.