I love getting dressed up.
I also slightly dread getting dressed up.
Both things are true.
There is something fun about it — the dress, the shoes, the jewelry, the perfume, the makeup, the little bit of sparkle, the possibility of walking into a room feeling polished and feminine and alive.
And there is also the reality of standing in front of the mirror trying to solve problems no one warned me would become part of getting ready.
At this age, heels have to be heels, but they cannot be too high. I still want the leg-lengthening, posture-improving, outfit-finishing magic of a good heel. But I also want to be able to walk, stand, mingle, dance, survive a parking lot, and make it home without needing orthopedic intervention.
Wedges are wonderful. Wedges are practical. Wedges are stable. Wedges are also, unfortunately, NOT always gala material.
So there I am, debating whether beauty is worth a blister, whether confidence has a height requirement, and whether I can gracefully make it through an evening in shoes that were clearly designed by someone who loves the beauty of a woman’s calves but hates that she be comfortable.
Then there is the dress.
I love an asymmetric neckline. I love a form-fitting dress that accentuates an hourglass figure. I love fabric that hugs the right places, gives shape, creates a line, and makes me feel like the woman I still recognize inside myself.
But I am also 52, which means getting dressed is not just putting on a dress. It takes some planning and sometimes a bit of engineering.
There are undergarments to consider. Angles. Seams. Lighting. Sitting. Standing. Breathing. The question of whether the dress looks amazing as long as I never sit down.
And then, of course, there is the nipple situation.
This is not elegant, but it is real.
I worry about whether everything is aligned. Whether one side has decided to be independent. Whether I have created, through bad bra architecture or poor adhesive placement, what I lovingly refer to as a cockeyed situation.
Or worse, a lazy eye.
Not on my face…. Lower.
There is nothing quite like feeling glamorous from the neck up and then realizing your chest has chosen abstract expressionism.
This is the part of getting dressed up no one talks about enough.
We see the final photo. The smile. The pose. The jewelry. The lighting. The finished version.
We do not see the woman ten minutes earlier, standing in her bedroom trying to decide if fashion tape is a miracle, a scam, or a personal attack.
We do not see the shoe negotiations.
We do not see the shapewear gymnastics.
We do not see the quiet prayer that nothing rolls, shifts, puckers, gaps, migrates, or betrays us before dessert.
And makeup has its own conversation.
I want my makeup to look good. I want to look polished, fresh, pretty, and like I made an effort. But I do not want to look like I am trying to look 25. I also do not want to look like I gave up and accepted a shade of beige called “ma’am.”
There is a balance.
Not too young.
Not too old.
Not too much.
Not too little.
Enough glow to look alive, but not so much glow that I look like I am sweating through a life decision.
Enough eye makeup to feel dressed, but not so much that the smokey eye starts to look like the smoke got caught in my eyelid crease and is smoldering there.
Enough lip color to feel finished, but not so much that I spend the night worrying where it has migrated to around my lips or on my chin.
I love perfume.
I love the way scent can become part of getting dressed, like the invisible finishing touch. I love Flowerbomb by Viktor & Rolf. I love layering it with Daisy Wild by Marc Jacobs. I love the mix of sweet and floral and feminine and playful. I love catching a little of it on my skin later and remembering that I chose something beautiful for myself before I walked out the door.
I love shiny things.
Gold. Silver. Mixed metals. A little sparkle. A little shimmer. Something that catches light when I move.
I love the way jewelry can make an outfit feel intentional.
I love the way the right dress can change my posture.
I love the way an asymmetric neckline can feel interesting and feminine.
I love the way a form-fitting dress can remind me that my hourglass figure is not something to hide, but something I am allowed to enjoy and even show off. Even at 52.
Getting dressed up asks a lot of a woman.
It asks us to know our bodies. It asks us to adapt. It asks us to laugh. It asks us to decide what is worth the effort and what is not. It asks us to let go of the version of ourselves who could wear anything, stand all night, and recover by morning.
But it also gives something back.
Because when it works, it is fantastically fun.
That is the Beautiful in getting dressed up.
It is not that everything looks perfect.
It never does.
Something always needs adjusting. Something always pinches a little. Something always feels slightly risky. Something always requires a backup plan, a safety pin, or a deep breath.
The Beautiful is that I still want to participate.
I still want the sparkle.
I still want the dress.
I still want the perfume.
I still want the shoes, even if they require strategy.
I still want to feel feminine, playful, polished, and present in my own life.
Not because I need a room to approve of me.
Not because I am trying to be younger than I am.
Not because getting dressed up fixes anything.
But because there is joy in it.
There is creativity in it.
There is humor in it.
There is a little ridiculousness in it.
There is the woman in the mirror, adjusting, laughing, evaluating, criticizing, correcting, approving, and eventually deciding:
Good enough.
Beautiful enough.
Me enough.
That is what getting dressed up is teaching me as I age.
It is not about becoming flawless before I leave the house.
It is about showing up anyway.
With the heel I am hoping is almost comfortable.
The makeup that highlights, contours, and hopefully does not settle into every line it can find.
The jewelry that makes me happy.
The perfume I love.
The dress that lets me feel like myself.
The body that has changed, carried, endured, softened, strengthened, aged, and still deserves to be celebrated.
Sometimes the Beautiful is not in looking perfect.
Sometimes it is in deciding to get dressed, add the sparkle, spray the perfume, check the nipples one last time, and go enjoy the night anyway.
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