I Live in Scottsdale. I Have Opinions About Summer Fashion.
Let me set the scene: it's June in Scottsdale, Arizona. The temperature is 112 degrees. The steering wheel of my Honda CR-V could double as a branding iron. And there I am, standing in a Nordstrom Rack, holding a polyester blouse with a tag that says "perfect for summer," wondering who, exactly, tested this claim. Because if they tested it anywhere hotter than a mild Tuesday in Portland, they're lying.
Frank, bless his heart, was sitting on the bench near the shoe section (the universal husband bench) reading something on his phone with the font set to what I'd call billboard size. He looked up and said, "You've been in here forty minutes." As though forty minutes in a philosophical standoff between a linen tunic (beach tent vibes) and a cotton wrap dress — genuinely lovely but $89 — was somehow unreasonable. The tunic had potential. The wrap dress had style. My wallet had opinions about both.
Bought the wrap dress. (Don't judge me.)
Is it just me, or has summer fashion for anyone over 60 been stuck in two modes for decades? Mode one: floral muumuus saying "I've given up but in a cheerful way." Mode two: stiff, dark clothing saying "I refuse to acknowledge the season." Neither one works. Neither one has ever worked. And yet every May, the department stores trot out the same options like we haven't noticed.
Well. We've noticed.
I spent my entire career teaching English to teenagers who thought "formal" meant wearing jeans without holes. So trust me when I say: looking put-together in summer heat is not about fashion rules. It's about knowing your fabrics, your colors, and your limits. And at 72, living in a city where the sidewalk could literally burn your feet in July? My limits are well-documented.
Fabrics: The Only Thing Between You and Heatstroke
Here's the thing about summer fabrics: the right one saves your day and the wrong one ruins it before 10 a.m. After nine years in the Sonoran Desert, what Frank generously calls my "fabric opinions" are really survival instincts.
Linen is the undisputed champion. Yes, it wrinkles. It wrinkles if you look at it wrong. It wrinkles while you're still putting it on. But linen breathes like nothing else, and at a certain point you have to decide: do you want to look pressed, or do you want to remain conscious? The wrinkles give character. (My story. Sticking with it.)
Cotton is the reliable second choice. Not exciting, not glamorous, just consistently decent. Like Frank at a dinner party. Bamboo blends have earned a spot in my rotation too: soft, moisture-wicking, and they survive the wash better than pure cotton. My daughter Carrie, who inherited my sharp tongue and her father's engineering brain, sent me a set of bamboo-blend tank tops from a brand called Boody. Ridiculous name. Excellent product!
What to avoid: polyester in any form, acrylic anything, and those mystery-blend fabrics with names like "TechWeave" or "CoolTouch" — sound scientific, feel like wearing a trash bag. Rayon is fine blended with something breathable, but on its own? A gamble nobody should take in July.
The Color Question (And Why Beige Had to Go)
Somewhere around age 65, someone decided seniors should wear neutrals. Beige. Taupe. "Sand." Greige, which is apparently a color now and not a typo. The entire palette of a Hampton Inn lobby.
No thank you.
Coral is my color. Figured this out in Tuscany in 2018, when a street vendor sold me a coral scarf for about eight euros and Frank said I looked "really nice," which from Frank is the equivalent of a standing ovation. Coral works with silver hair. Sage green does too — sophisticated without trying too hard, which is my entire approach to getting dressed at 72. Periwinkle. Soft lavender. Even a bold cobalt blue, if you're feeling dangerous.
The trick with color is simple: hold it up to your face in natural light. Not store light. Store lighting exists to sell things, not to make you look good. Brighter face? Buy it. Tired-looking face? Put it back. Not complicated science. Just standing near a window.
Dark colors absorb heat. Learned this the hard way, wearing a black cotton blouse to an outdoor brunch in August. By the time the eggs Benedict arrived, my body was generating its own weather system. Light colors reflect heat. Wear them.
Summer Shoes: A Love Letter to Arch Support
Can we talk about summer footwear? A decade-long quest for sandals my podiatrist won't hate has finally produced results worth sharing.
For years the choice was: cute sandals with no support, or orthopedic sandals resembling medical devices with straps. You could be stylish or you could walk without pain. Never both. We all just accepted this. Absurd, in retrospect.
Things have gotten better. Not perfect, but better. Vionic makes sandals with actual arch support — ones you wouldn't be embarrassed to wear to lunch. Their Tide II flip-flop, $69.95, got me through an entire summer without foot pain I'd accepted as a permanent roommate. Orthofeet has dress sandals with cushioning thick enough to forgive concrete! Ecco makes a walking sandal called the Yucatan — Frank and I both own a pair (his in brown, mine in a shade they call "marine" but an English teacher calls teal, because accurate language matters).
Look for removable insoles (swap in your own orthotics), a wide toe box (your toes have earned room after seven decades), and soles with actual grip. Slipped on a wet tile floor at a restaurant in 2019 and caught myself on a stranger's chair. The stranger was very understanding. My dignity was less so.
Avoid anything with the word "kitten" in front of "heel." Kitten heels are a trap at any age, but after 65 they're a genuine safety hazard. Flat is fine. Flat is honest. Flat is what your ankles have been begging for.
Layering in Summer (Yes, Seriously)
Every summer, the same cycle. You walk outside and it's 107 degrees. You walk into a Walgreens and it's 58 degrees. You walk back outside. 107 again. Your body doesn't know what season it is. Your body is filing a complaint.
Summer layering matters — not for warmth, but for the wild temperature swings between outdoors and the Arctic tundra of every American retail establishment. A lightweight cardigan solves this. Mine come in three colors: white cotton, sage green, and a navy one for everything else. The navy makes me feel like someone who should be on a boat, which will not be happening because I haven't trusted a cruise ship since 2013 (shrimp-related, don't ask). Ask me how I know.
Silk scarves work beautifully too. Toss one in your bag. It weighs nothing, it covers your shoulders when the air conditioning is set to "meat locker," and it adds a pop of color making you look like you planned the whole outfit. Even if the whole outfit was actually just whatever was clean.
Actually, wait. The cotton shrug is the unsung hero of summer dressing. Sleeveless dress underneath, cotton shrug on top when you need it, off when you don't. Simple. Effective. My book club friends and I have collectively agreed on this point, and we've been meeting for 22 years, so our consensus carries weight (even if we drink more wine than we discuss books).
Accessories: Survival Gear with Style
Wide-brimmed hats. Non-negotiable. Not a baseball cap. A proper wide-brimmed hat with UPF 50+ protection. My packable one from Wallaroo has been crammed into suitcases, sat on, and once left on the roof of the car. Still looks good. Cost $42. Best money ever spent on something that isn't coffee.
Sunglasses should be bigger than you think you need. Larger frames cover more of the delicate skin around your eyes, and they make you look like someone important. Or someone hiding from someone important. Either way, you're protected.
Crossbody bags over shoulder bags, every time. Distributes the weight, keeps your hands free, doesn't slide off your shoulder while you're fishing out car keys in a parking lot hot enough to fry an egg. Switched three years ago and my chiropractor actually commented on the improvement.
And compression socks in fun patterns. Yes, for summer. They come in everything from polka dots to Van Gogh prints now. They help with swelling on hot days, they help on flights, and they're a fun little secret under your pants! Frank wears plain beige ones because he is Frank and drama is not his department.
Adaptive Fashion: When Getting Dressed Shouldn't Be a Workout
Adaptive fashion has gotten genuinely good and most people don't know about it.
Buttons are charming in theory. In practice, when your fingers have decided they'd rather not cooperate today, buttons are tiny adversaries. Magnetic closures look identical but snap together instead. Tommy Hilfiger's adaptive line has them. So does Target's Universal Thread. Not medical garments with sad beige fabric. Actual clothes that actual people would choose to wear.
Zippers with longer pulls. Tops with side openings instead of overhead entry. Pants with elastic waists that don't look like elastic waists. (The technology has come a long way from 1998, when elastic-waist pants looked exactly like elastic-waist pants and fooled no one.)
Feeling confident in what you wear shouldn't require a twenty-minute battle with your clothing every morning.
The Capsule Wardrobe (or: How I Stopped Opening My Closet in Despair)
Emma, my teenage granddaughter who considers herself the household authority on all matters digital and aesthetic, told me about capsule wardrobes. She saw it on TikTok. Common sense with a trendy name, as far as I could tell. But the concept works: a small collection of pieces that all go together, so you never stand in front of your closet at 7:45 a.m. wondering why you own forty-seven tops and nothing to wear.
My summer capsule is ruthlessly small. Three tops: one sleeveless in coral, one short-sleeve in white, one light long-sleeve in sage. Two bottoms: linen ankle pants in navy, a cotton midi skirt in cream. One wrap dress, the $89 one from Nordstrom Rack, earning its keep. One cardigan. The Vionic sandals. The Ecco walking sandals for longer days. Done.
Everything mixes with everything. Nothing requires dry cleaning, because dry cleaning is a tax on people who haven't figured out washable fabrics exist. And when Frank and I travel, this entire wardrobe fits in a carry-on, which means never standing at a baggage carousel wondering if the suitcase took a detour to Cleveland.
Style doesn't have an expiration date. It just gets more efficient.
Nine Summers in the Desert
Moved to Scottsdale because my bones demanded sunshine. They got it, along with temperatures that would alarm a lizard and a dry heat that people keep calling "better than humidity" as though 115 degrees is acceptable under any atmospheric conditions.
But nine summers have taught me something about getting dressed after 70: nobody is looking at you as hard as you think they are. Not the twenty-somethings in the gym. Not the other women at brunch. Not the clerk at Trader Joe's. You are the only person conducting a full audit of your outfit at any given moment.
So wear the coral. Try the wide-brimmed hat. Buy the comfortable shoes.
Frank and I were sitting on the patio last week, one of those rare June evenings where the temperature dips below 100 and the sky turns that impossible shade of orange. The linen pants, the Nordstrom Rack dress, the Wallaroo hat still on because taking it off felt like too much effort. Frank looked over from his golf magazine and said, "You look nice."
Since 1978, and he still surprises me.
Here's the thing about fashion at any age. It was never really about the clothes. It was about feeling like yourself. And yourself, at 72, has excellent taste. Trust her.
