![]() Still, I’ve never been one to cringe in the face of encroaching age. Like that time on the airplane, when I tried to finagle a date with a seatmate-a good-looking fellow from my hometown-and found we had an acquaintance in common: His mother had been a high school classmate of mine. Other times I feel old and foolish, forced to confront how many-and how quickly-years have come and gone. (Never mind that the store clerk was an elderly man wearing very thick glasses.) I’m healthy and strong and, heck, I was carded when I was 39. ![]() The years snuck up when I wasn’t looking, the calendar has caught me by surprise. I suddenly feel cheated, ambushed by age. I’m not that mannequin anymore, I realize with a start. I turn and replace it on the rack, then glance at the mannequin perched above me, the black dress stretched alluringly across her narrow-hipped, tiny-waisted form. I look past her at my reflection in the mirror and see a dumpy-looking woman clutching a very small dress-a young woman’s dress. “You’re kidding, right?” Her voice drips with disdain. “What do you think? Maybe for a Christmas party.” ![]() I hold one up against me-a stretchy black velvet sheath-and turn to face my daughter.
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