From Twiggy to SpongeBob, in a Flash

The announcement arrived as they often do these days — via social media. Emmy and Drew are engaged! The groom-to-be had popped the question in an “Instagram-perfect setting,” overlooking rolling hills of vineyards at sunset.

“Oohs,” “how sweets,” and “lovelys” quickly filled the comment section on the couple’s feed. The proposal had been anticipated for some time, and family and friends could not wait to celebrate this wonderful occasion.

So much to do, so many decisions to make. And we aren’t even talking about the actual wedding planning. As great uncle and aunt of the bride, we are considered important family guests. And with this exalted status comes a responsibility of our own — we need to look good for the nuptials.

“I’ll get a new tuxedo!” exclaimed hubby, already scrolling through sartorial sites. “I’ve lost a lot of weight lately, so I should definitely get something new. I’m thinking one in a bright shade of blue.”

I started to remind him that ruffled shirts and cummerbunds fell out of fashion in the mid-80s, but thought better of it.

“You know it’s a beach wedding, right? I don’t think there will be any tuxedos worn. How about a blue seersucker suit? You’ve always said you wanted one.” I was desperately hoping this might appeal to his fashion sense.

WHEW. My suggestion seemed to work. Sufficiently soothed, off he went to renew his search.

As I held my breath in anticipation of his next selection, it hit me. The heck with seersucker — I had nothing to wear either! Well, nothing I deemed suitable anyway. Sure, I had a closet full of lovely dresses, but it had been ten years since I’d seen many of the invited family members, and I was determined to look A‑M‑A‑Z‑I‑N‑G.

And so, my own Google search ensued. Every possible combination was explored: “beach wedding attire” (enter). “Dresses appropriate for seaside nuptials” (enter). “Beach wedding guest dresses” (enter). And most important of all: “What does a 70+ woman wear to look chic at a coastal wedding ceremony” (enter).

I searched and searched and searched. Even Alexa and Siri were getting tired of listening. But three hours and hundreds of websites later, I knew exactly what I needed.

 I needed to go shopping. I needed to look, see, feel, and touch fabulous dresses. I needed to try on lots and lots of lovely, preferably much-less-than-frumpy creations. And there was no one better to help me do this than my best friend Marge.

Before you could say “Rent the Runway,” an appointment was made with Sylvia, Yelp’s highest-rated local stylist. Soon my wonderful BFF and I were on our way to S.A.G.E., a boutique beloved by the more mature women in our neighborhood. I couldn’t wait to see which of the fabulous designs Sylvia had selected to grace my now slightly-less-than-lithe figure. Something at least a little slinky, I hoped.

While we awaited her presentation, I found myself slipping into a delicious daydream. I was walking the catwalk during Paris Fashion Week with the tall, lissom body of my youth — long, smooth steps, shoulders back, chin slightly lifted. One foot placed directly in front of the other, a subtle hip sway to a remix of Beyoncé’s greatest hits.

“Annie! Annie!” Marge’s voice and the stylist’s snapping fingers jolted me back to reality. I hadn’t even realized I’d been helped into a slinky, floor-length sequin gown. With expert hands, Sylvia was attempting to squeeze my feet into a pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos with six-inch heels. (Like THAT was going to happen.)

Sequins aside, one glance in the mirror was all it took. Something terrible had happened. One minute I was channeling my inner Twiggy — long legs, slender thighs, flat tummy. You know, the figure of someone who could eat a croissant — or a box of them — without consequence. The next minute I was staring at a reflection that screamed the outline of SpongeBob SquarePants.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite that bad, but it did feel like my “transformation” had happened in a flash. In my mind, I was still a size 6, but somewhere between age 20 and menopause, my body had staged a silent coup — and forgotten to send a memo.

But Sylvia was a pro. Before I even turned from the mirror, she was ready with another option. A beautiful, flowy creation showcasing a botanical design of classical motifs and tranquil gardens was too gorgeous to ignore. The slightly tented style of lightly pleated fabric perfectly camouflaged any real or imagined flaws.

Mission accomplished. I was going to look great. No, not just great — fantastic. And I probably wouldn’t even need Spanx.

As I whipped out my credit card, Sylvia suggested I consider adding the Christian Louboutin heels “for a polished, elevated look.” Spying my hesitation, Marge rushed me out the door before I could say “yes.”

I returned home delighted with my purchase, although admittedly a bit disappointed to realize I no longer possessed anything close to a Twiggy-like silhouette. Such is life — and aging. I think it’s fair to say that Anna Wintour will not be calling anytime soon.