My former (and much beloved) business partner had a theory that after a certain age, people should forget about current fashion and adopt a classic look. Never mind that “certain age” is not specific, and what constitutes “classic” is open to debate. The idea that, at thirty, we are all supposed to start wearing oxford shirts and penny loafers calls to mind the “Star Trek” episode featuring a planet run by children who drop dead as they reach maturity.

I am not a student of fashion, and most of my “expertise” in that area comes by virtue of being a gay graphic designer with an eye for good lines and a horror of anything originating in the nineteen eighties; attempting to categorize my own style invokes the image of a slightly trendy hobo. Nevertheless, I keep my eyes and mind open and respond appropriately.

Today, emerging from a CVS, I held the door open for an old woman who, I suspect, was not as old as she looked. Her white hair was in a tight permanent, her glasses covered half her face, and her sturdy figure sported a Walmart tank top and polyester shorts (not a natural fiber to be found anywhere on her person would be my guess). This is truly a “classic” look: my grandmother dressed exactly the same way thirty years ago, except she dyed her hair ash blonde.

I suppose my question is, at what age does someone decide do this to himself or herself, and is it even a bad thing to disassociate from the vagaries of what other people think we should be wearing in favor of practicality and function? When that woman turned fifty, did she sit down and decide, “Today, I shall begin dressing like an old woman”? Which meant, of course, that she would also begin acting like and being treated like an old woman.

I suppose all of this implies there is something wrong with being an old woman, and there most certainly isn’t. Nor do I believe that being fifty constitutes being “old.” There is almost no way to even frame the debate without implying insult where none is meant. As usual, I am not so much concerned with that old woman as I am with the connotations for my own life. Will there ever come a time when I abandon my personal style (such as it is) for a polyester bargain? Or (and this is more likely) will I cling to the fashions from the era I came of age and comfort myself by redefining these as “classic”?

I really don’t know why I equate both of these possibilities with the idea of giving up on something. I place absolutely no weight, especially these days, on the opinions of the public; I don’t crave the approval of society. I suppose I’m worried that I will all of a sudden hit some sort of wall, after which I won’t strive to meet my own expectations for myself.

That’s the day I will be old.