I was walking home from work the other evening and came upon a woman who must have been in her early eighties. Having loved two grandmas and seen them live long, healthy lives into their late eighties and early nineties, I’m making a relatively safe bet, here.
She was fabulous. So fabulous, she brought out the Lady GaGa in me — Paparazzi. I pulled out my iPhone and tried to photograph her while walking. The result? The grainy “surveillance photo” above. It does her absolutely no justice.
She was in pumps with a 2″ heel, nylon stockings with an elegant seam up the back, matching black leather bag — of course — and the the coat? Just look at it. Stunning, white and fitted perfectly around her shoulders and fastened with a single button at her throat.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a tasteful, simple bun that was enclosed in a hairnet just around the bun. In her right hand was a beautiful walking stick (not visible in this photo).
Her make-up was understated, her gait was calm, her eyes focused on the horizon. She was breath-taking. She was beautiful. And she welcomed it. There was no pretense. There was no pride. She was simply a woman in a fabulous frock with an elegant air.