Changes.

Getting dressed is exhausting, and I would know, because I did it seven times yesterday. Give me 82 degrees and sunny when it’s barely spring, and I’ll give you me - in a panic.

I know why I had not-ready-for-summer anxiety. But I don’t quite know why I had wardrobe-anxiety. I do know why I have it with some people - I have a couple of friends who always seem to be wearing the right thing - rendering my “right thing” too dressy, or too basic, or too something.

But I was on my way to meet my friend Emily. And while she’s beautiful and has great style, she always makes me feel great. So getting dressed was a no-brainer.

I knew what I’d wear - my favorite new pants, by a company called Ruti, which, a couple of months ago, were populating my feed to such a degree that I bought two pair. I love them.

Well, unlike what the cool girl in my feed said, that is NOT all.

The top was another matter. First, I paired those Ruti’s with a simple white tee, then, a pretty top with a pointy collar (adorable, in my head) then, a beige drapey number. No, no, and no. I’m too pasty for white or beige and suddenly, the whole thing wasn’t working.

Outfit 1:

I thought it would be a slam dunk. No slam. No dunk. Not even a dribble.

Those Ruti’s came right off my booty. And before I knew it, I was flailing.

Outfit 2:

I love a denim-skirt-moment. But this wasn’t it.

Ah. A long slim denim skirt with a floaty peasant top. Rich hippie. Or maybe middle-class hippie. Ok, just hippie. Ugh. Not even hippie. More like dippy. Yes, I had to admit it, I looked a bit dippy. And my mood was getting drippy.

I was starting to become the me I dislike most. Frustrated. Insecure. Frantic. I surveyed my closet with a squint, as if to divine something. And I did.

Outfit 3:

I’d pictured myself walking along a charming Lisbon street when I bought this.

This pretty little lady of a dress volunteered itself. Why yes, my lovely striped friend! I’ll take you out for a spin! Let’s pair you with high espadrilles and be on our way! No, no, said my sobering voice. You don’t have high espadrilles any more because they hurt your feet. Remember? It was when you first suspected you might have something that rhymes with onions, but were in denial? You gave them to a niece with younger feet. Maybe this dress works with a low sandal? No! No, it does not. The proportions are wrong! Ugh! Why have a dress if you don’t have a shoe for it? Why? Why? I’m not just thinking “why, why,” I’m saying it. Spiraling. And while it’s not late, it’s no longer early.

I try a brown dress with a skinny leopard belt and look like an annoying art teacher who insists on doing yet another papier maché project long after the class has outgrown it. I yank an oversized t-shirt dress from my closet. God. I’ve gone from artsy to frumpy. A slim denim shirtdress follows, but gets the boot simply because I’m in boot-mode.

Finally, I grab the least inspired choice of all. A black t-shirt with flowy pants and sandals. There’s nothing wrong with it, but nothing all that right either. I throw a couple of necklaces over the t-shirt and hope for the best.

As I walk to the restaurant, I ask myself why I was so surprised by the weather. I mean, I do have a weather app on my phone. I knew it would be 82 and sunny. And yet it threw me into a tizzy, tossing me endlessly, like clothes in the dryer.

I always know things are coming, yet, ridiculously, they surprise me. I’ve been this way my whole life.

Wait, you’re supposed to get a job after college?

People get married in their 30’s? Who knew this?

It’s harder to get pregnant as you get older? Now they tell me.

You have to register kids for pre-school?

Hold on. Companies lay senior people off?

I could go on. I have gone on.

Suffice it to say, there are those who prepare for the worst and those who hope for the best. And then there are those who just kind of wake up.

Which brings me to my current issue.

I took last summer off - first time I’ve not worked in 35 years. I was beachy, boozey, lazy, and I loved it. I figured I’d go back to work in September, but apparently, I was the only one who thought so. It was still sunny and gorgeous so I half-heartedly sent out my typical “hey, I’m up for an assignment” emails. Nothing happened. So I sent a few more. And while waiting, started doing things I’d never done on weekdays -meeting friends for lunch and going to museums. I walked everywhere and did more personal writing than I had in ages. I went to the movies when it rained. Volunteered at a soup kitchen. Had margaritas on Friday afternoons. All of which sounds pretty great. But I feel unsettled. So I tell myself it’s temporary.

Last week, I got a text about a job. And I panicked. Not in the way I normally panic (“do I still know how to do this?”) but in a new way (“do I want to do this?”) The job fell through and I was relieved.

I think maybe I don’t want to work anymore.

I italicized it because I’m whispering. It’s not that I’m ashamed - I’m not. I feel something worse than shame - I feel dumb. Dumbstruck, actually - as if there’s a permanent thought bubble over my head that says “Huh?”

I should be enjoying this. And I will, someday. I guess. But I’m not ready. This wasn’t my idea - it just kind of happened. Like the first 82-degree day. And child-rearing. And marriage.

Retirement is one of those words that people hate for good reason - there’s nothing sexy about it.

“I think it’s time I retire this sweater,” I said recently of a faded, shapeless cardigan I’ve been wearing at home forever. No one disagreed - but no one saw the sweater as running off to do something glamorous - we saw it as doing what was necessary - disappearing.

Will I disappear if I stop working?

I ask myself why I can’t simply enjoy it - travel with my husband - take an occasional girls’ trip - have a twice-weekly lunch date - walk across the Brooklyn Bridge - be the kind of person who spends an afternoon at The Frick and another at The Whitney. Volunteer. Do pilates. Learn to watercolor?

I will, I tell myself. I will do those things. But first, I have to learn to shift.

In the meantime, I cling to old habits - I’m home for dinner each night and up at 7 every morning. I see weekdays differently than weekends and scoff at the thought of staying out past 10 on a Tuesday night.

I don’t know the customs of my new world and I don’t speak its language.

I’m not alone, but I feel lonely in this.

My step count is high, but my destinations are limited.

And I don’t seem to have a map.

Last night I dreamt that two big ad agencies were vying to hire me. It involved a pitch, and as I ran home to change clothes for a meeting after having worked through the night, the other company called to up their offer. It was so stressful, it woke me. But I was giddy with excitement.

Work made me feel powerful. And wanted. And needed.

This other thing makes me feel naked.

Like snow that won’t melt, or a leaf that clings to a branch after fall is long over, or a drunken party guest who won’t leave, I’m kind of just hanging around.

I get to the restaurant and Emily is at a booth. I can’t see what the white letters on her black t-shirt say until she stands to greet me.

“I love it,” I smile.

“Everyone has t-shirts that say ‘Fuck Ice’ and here I am with this.” She shakes her head as if she’s a clown. If she’s a clown, then sign me up for clown school.

Because if there’s one thing I need, it’s more.

More letting go.

More willingness to take credit for what I’ve done to get here.

More dinners out. More mornings in. More art. More music. More food. More drinks. More life.

More acceptance.

More of what’s on Emily’s shirt.