On BeBe, a casual date, and what 67 actually looks like.
There’s a small ritual I do most mornings, ladies. I open the closet, I look at what’s hanging there, and I think about the day ahead. Not the weather. Not the trend. The day. Who am I going to be today, and what is the closet going to do for me?
Because most women are three women. Or four. Or five. There’s the woman at work — the one who runs the meeting, signs the contract, holds the room. There’s the woman at home — the mother, the grandmother, the daughter still calling to check on her own mom. There’s the friend — the one who shows up with a bottle of wine and an open ear. There’s the woman who gets dressed for a date, or a gallery opening, or a Tuesday lunch that turned into something. And there’s the woman who is just herself — coffee in hand, no audience, the version no one else really sees.
We move between them all day, all week, all season — sometimes without even noticing the change. And our clothes have to keep up. They’re not just fabric on a hanger; they’re how we shift gears, how we change hats, how we tell ourselves it’s time to be someone a little different now.
I am at least four women: Founder of SaaCA, BeBe, the friend, and the woman who gets to glam up for a date. Most days, I’m the Founder. But I love to slip on my BeBe hat. Dark denim, a soft sweater, sneakers I can sit cross-legged on the floor in. June and Naiara don’t care what I wear — they care that I’m down on the floor with them, that my arms are free to scoop them up, that I show up with open arms and nowhere else to be. But I also want clothes that earn their keep on a BeBe day — that move when I move, stretch when I stretch, forgive a damp shoulder, a milky cheek, and a knee on the rug. Clothes that let me be entirely theirs for the hours we have together. White jeans have never been that. White jeans on a grandchild day are a kind of vanity I cannot afford — and that, right there, is the first of the white denim mistakes I want to talk about today.
But every so often — not often, not yet, but sometimes — the day is something else. A casual dinner. A lunch with someone I’m getting to know. A drive into Atlanta for a meeting that runs into the evening, or to look at another apartment in Dunwoody (more on that here, if you missed it). And on those days, I pull the white jeans out of the closet, and I think: this is what 67 looks like.
Table of contents
Not a uniform. A choice.
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about dressing after 50, my friends. The clothes you keep aren’t the clothes you wear every day. The clothes you keep are the clothes that mean something. The clothes that earn their place in the closet do so by being available — for the version of yourself you want to put on that morning, whatever that version happens to be.
My white jeans don’t get worn often. But the days I do wear them, they do an enormous amount of work. They tell me — and anyone I’m meeting — that today is its own thing. Not a grandchild day. Not a Tuesday at the desk. Something else. Something I dressed for.
That’s what a piece that earns its place looks like at 67. Not the workhorse you reach for every day, although those have their place too. The piece you reach for when the day deserves it.
The pieces that have earned theirs
After more than a decade of writing about heritage maximalist, American Classic style here at Style at a Certain Age, I have a closet full of clothes I’ve genuinely thought about. And the ones I keep reaching for share something in common, my friends. They each correspond to a version of myself I want to be able to put on.
The dark denim and soft sweater that let me be BeBe. The Ralph Lauren twill jacket that makes a Monday feel hopeful. TheFrank & Eileen linen shirtdress has gotten me through every important meeting since 2019. The Talbots blazer that’s a summer staple. The black silk blouse for a real evening out. And the white jeans — for the days that aren’t grandchild days, that aren’t desk days, that are something more particular than that.
These pieces aren’t the ones I wear most often. They’re the ones that tell the truth when I do. They match the version of myself I’m being. That’s the standard, after 50 — not how often you wear something, but how true it is when you do.
What 67 looks like
This is what I keep coming back to, Grit & Glammers. There’s a quiet assumption in the culture that 67 is supposed to look one way — the grandmother way, the soft, folded, and stepped-back way. And BeBe absolutely is part of who I am. The granddaughters are at the center of my whole life, and the dark jeans on the playroom floor are a kind of love letter every time I wear them.
But 67 also looks like white jeans on a Saturday evening with someone interesting across the table. It looks like a striped tee on a Monday morning when I sit down to write the next chapter of the novel. It looks like a white embroidered blouse and pointed straw slingback flats, walking into a room, I’ve earned the right to be in. It looks like all of it. The grandmother, the writer, the editor, the woman on the casual date — none of those is more authentic than the other.
The closet is what makes that possible. A few good pieces that each correspond to a real part of my life. Not a uniform. A vocabulary.
So let me show you. Six outfits, six versions of myself, six answers to the question I asked at the top of this post — who am I going to be today?
This one’s a casual lunch with a friend, the kind that starts at noon and somehow stretches until the light changes. The cropped denim jacket keeps it grounded, the snake belt and sandals do the quiet talking, and the wide-leg crop says I dressed for this on purpose.
A spring meeting day. The Founder, in full. A blazer in this particular shade of green is a small act of optimism — it tells the room you came ready to work, and that you’re glad to be there. The flares and ballet flats keep it grown-up but never stiff.
A Saturday morning that turns into a Saturday afternoon. Errands, a long lunch on the patio, maybe a stop at the nursery on the way home. The paisley does the heavy lifting; the white jeans simply hold everything together.
This is the elevated weekend look — apartment-hunting in Dunwoody, dinner with someone afterward, the kind of day where I want to feel pulled together from morning through evening. Ivory and olive are quieter than white and navy, and quieter, lately, is exactly where I want to be.
And here she is — the woman who gets to glam up for a date. Pink on pink on pink, with a leopard belt because she’s still herself underneath it all. White jeans on a Saturday evening with someone interesting across the table. This is what 67 looks like.
The friend. Wine in hand, no plans to leave. White jeans don’t have to mean going somewhere — sometimes they just mean I’m staying in, and I still felt like dressing for myself. The navy cardigan is the one I reach for again and again.
The white denim that won’t break the bank
Okay, gang, here’s the truth: you do not need to spend $200 on white jeans. You need a pair that isn’t see-through, that holds its shape through a long day, and that flatters whatever silhouette you’re working with. Below are six pairs under $100, in a mix of cuts, from retailers I trust to deliver consistent fit and quality. I’ve grouped them by silhouette so you can find the one that suits the version of yourself you’re dressing.
Old Navy High-Waisted Wide-Leg White Jeans — around $50–55
Gap Stride Wide-Leg in white — around $90
High Rise Kick Crop in white – around $90 but often on sale
Banana Republic Factory High-Rise Wide-Leg — around $60
Loft Rivete Patch Pocket High-Rise Slim Flare in white — around $95, frequently 30% off
Quince Stretch Flare Jeans – around $50
Amazon Essentials High-Rise Wide-Leg White Jeans — around $40
The takeaway
If there is one thing I want my Grit & Glammers to take from this — beyond the white jeans, beyond the grandchild days, beyond any of it — it’s this. The pieces that earn their place in your closet after 50 are the ones that match the woman you actually are, in all her versions. Not the woman the magazines told you to be at 35, and not the softer, smaller woman the culture sometimes wants you to become at 67.
Style has no expiration date, my friends. And neither does the right to dress like every part of your life is worth dressing for.
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