Old Ladies of the Symphony

                                                                                                      Illustration: Sandra's Mixed Bag

Having season tickets to the Portland Symphony for the past nine years, which allows me to assemble with other classical music lovers on five to eight Sunday afternoons per year, I can now claim to be an expert on old ladies in this part of the country who share this interest. What I have concluded is that Maine women enter old age early. Many of them are likely only in their 50s and 60s but could easily pass for 80 or more. They do this in a variety of ways which I will describe here:

Plastic surgery not being a New England thing, wrinkly skin is abundant. 

Most concert attendees have white "man hair." Some are grayer than others, but the overall look is white hair reaching no longer than the nape of the neck.

Every one of them wears large earrings, usually of gold or pearl and never dangling, only the kind that just sit quietly on the lobe.

Many of them sport beautiful tailored clothing that look quite expensive. I have seriously lusted after many a fine cashmere sweater or tweedy jacket seen on the backs of women in the audience who looked like they might not live through the next concerto.

They all wear a scarf around the neck which remains on during the performance, regardless of the temperature in the concert hall.

Most old Maine ladies, or at least the ones who attend the symphony, are thin. Think Barbara Bush, only stretched out like in a fun house mirror.

Many of them arrive in wheelchairs or have walkers or canes.

Finding myself 71 years old (!) despite my best efforts, and loving classical music, I am obviously heading towards becoming an Old Lady of the Symphony. But having been born and raised in New York, I will always bear some telltale differences. For example, my hair will never be gray. (They'll have to pry that box of Clairol from my cold, dead hands.) And while I find the habit of "dressing up" for the symphony immensely endearing, hearkening back to the days before ripped jeans cost $400 and were considered suitable apparel for any occasion, I stopped dressing up for anything years ago. At yesterday's performance I wore jeans, and if you must know they had a few oil paint stains on them, but it was a crummy day and besides, in a dark theater, who knows?

Despite my daily oatmeal with walnuts, nightly application of moisturizer, twice-weekly gym workouts and monthly root touch-ups, aging continues and is a distinct drag. Still, if I have to be an Old Lady that bunch at the symphony seems like a group I don't mind joining. (Except for the wheelchairs.)