A crumpled roll of aluminum foil, all 150 feet of it, on stilts; that’s what I looked like in the self-proclaimed famous designer silver puffer in the discount department store in the town where I shop. 

The mid-thigh length jacket was marked down hundreds of dollars, and I needed a new knock-around jacket. I marched it into the dressing room and gave it a try. Zipped myself in it and then zipped myself and shrugged out of it faster than Usain Bolt can run the 100 meters. 

Too bad. I stood and waited to see if another woman would grab my discarded didn’t‑work-out find from the dressing room rejects rack. Maybe the 85-year-old cruising the store aisles? I was uncertain if the puffer was a match for her body type or her severely sensible shoes. But.

Did any of that matter? At 85, she’d earned whatever she wanted to wear. I mean. Haven’t we all at whatever our age or size or style sense?

“If it makes you happy,” Sheryl Crow sings, and that’s how it should be. 

Yes, I did not buy that silver puffer. I bought two t‑shirts — one lime green and one blush gold — both stretch lame. I will wear them with my pin-striped blazer, fling a scarf around my neck ala Keith Richards and flaunt some chandelier earrings, and that will make me happy. Long live rock ​‘n roll!