IN WITH THE OLD
When do I get to be more like Aunt Bea?
Geez, I wish they’d bring back Aunt Bee. My life would be so much easier if they did.
Remember her? Aunt Bee from Mayberry … Mayberry, North Carolina? You’re probably whistling the tune in your head already, but for those who aren’t: The Andy Griffith’s Show, a sitcom which ran until 1970 and featured a very young Ron Howard and a very sweet expression of small town life in America. Over the holidays, I stumbled upon an episode of the black and white TV show and I found myself enchanted by Aunt Bee. Bee was sheriff Andy Taylor’s housekeeper, as well as his aunt. She was a baked potato of a woman in shapeless, shirtwaist dresses and sensible shoes. Her hair was a tidy skein of grey, often worn under a modest hat. What Gisele Bündchen is to bikinis, Aunt Bee was to aprons. She filled ’ em out just fine. Bee was cheerful, efficient, faultless in her deportment, plus she produced three sit-down meals of epic proportions each day. And when she spoke, people listened. Yes, you couldn’t help but like Bee.
Ahhh, to be Aunt Bee. The utter relief of it all. Grey hair! Comfortable shoes! Simple apparel that accommodates rather than challenges! A life dedicated to interests rather than to vanity! It does sound appealing, doesn’t it? Dear, sweet, be-aproned Beatrice Taylor.
Today, however, we’d say that Aunt Bee had “let herself go.”
She was guilty of one of the great unspoken crimes of our culture: she had failed to stop time. She had dropped the ball and somehow shamed herself.
After all, how many women do you know with grey hair? Among my mom’s friends in their seventies and eighties, not one of them has grey hair. Genetic lucky strike? Maybe something in the water? Of course not. Grey hair is as good as outlawed these days.
As for Bee’s wardrobe? I guess it depends what standard one is judging this by. It was appropriate. It was serviceable. And, I suppose, it was timeless. She wore a string of pearls when the occasion warranted it, but clothes were far from her greatest expression of self.
I found myself reflecting on Aunt Bee as I sat waiting for a friend in the second floor bar of Nordstrom’s. A steady parade of whippet thin women passed by, each one a testament to pilates, food- free diets, and full fluency in fashionese. Not one person reflected Bee’s modest presentation. It appeared that the median age of the crowd, if judging by wardrobe alone, was 17.
My friend appeared. All of her training has been in fashion, and none of it in the diplomatic corp. She’s an old friend, and as such, can speak hideous truths to me, unvarnished.
“We have got to get you some new clothes”, she intoned two sips into her martini.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I spluttered. “It’s out of date.” “Who says?!” “Says Barbara Bush. Says Olive Diefenbaker. Says Margaret Thatcher.”
I pout and throw a pistachio right at her head.
She ducks. She is an old friend.
I agree to let her introduce me to some hipper jeans. It doesn’t go well. We visit the coat department. It doesn’t go well. She drags me through the accessories department and insists I buy a necklace made from the gilded bones of small rodents and Egyptian scarab beetles. The thinking is that it will make everything else I own look “edgier.”
Aunt Bee didn’t have to look edgy. Aunt Bee got to look comfy.
Of late, I’ve had it with the illusion of youth and beauty. It’s too much work! It takes too much time! Diligent maintenance could be a full time job. And let’s face it: it’s more like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic than it is laying the foundations for the pyramids. Despite the time and the money, whatever you do is just a temporary fix.
Once you near the mid-century mark, time speeds up. Somehow, a new suit is five years old before you know it. You’ve been wearing that polar fleece hoodie for so long that you no longer even notice the logo of the defunct Vancouver Grizzlies on the back of it. In dog years, your dog-walking shoes are 63 years old. The math is always a surprise.
So, when do we get to surrender the illusion? When do we get to be Aunt Bee?
Fatema Mernissi, the Islamic scholar and author who died Nov. 30th, often spoke of the “European harem” that equals the restrictive dress codes currently inflicted on Muslim women. It was her assertion that the West’s narrow view of viability condemns the mature woman to invisibility. I contend that it also makes us look silly. And it leaves us with little time for, perhaps, more meaningful pursuits. Health is one thing, but it’s not exactly health that we’re pursuing with our gym memberships. Primarily, it’s about vanity, with the various other benefits accruing as bonuses.
With a gun to my head, I settle on a pair of over- the- knee black leather boots. My friend is well pleased and we head back to the bar. ( This combination of alcohol and credit cards is pure retail genius, by the way!) I feign a mild indifference to my latest acquisition, but my pal has me nailed.
She whistles a few bars from The Andy Griffith’s Show and states, reprovingly: “Even Aunt Bee loved a new hat every once in a while.”