Charlotte Latvala: August heat and sleeveless dresses

I was striding confidently down the street the other day when I caught sight of my reflection in a store window.

Or rather, I caught sight of my arms.

Pasty, pale, and yes, more than a tad puffy.

It was like I had exhumed them from some dusty attic – no, a musty basement, a subterranean vault, a damp, dank place where translucent formless creatures slip and scurry away from human contact – and brought them into the daylight for the first time in years.

Which wasn’t too far from the truth.

I’ve been avoiding sleeveless clothes since there were Clintons in the White House. Maybe Reagans. The three-quarter-length sleeve has been my constant companion, my sartorial go-to, my no-need-to-think-about-it choice, for many a year.

Call it vanity, call it a realistic assessment of one’s strengths and weaknesses. At my most fit – when I was running and doing yoga and actually owned a rowing machine – I never had toned arms.

And honestly, you know your body parts. You dress to play up your strengths and minimize your weaknesses. Was my consumption of Seventeen Magazine and Glamour in the 1970s for naught? Was I the only one who felt a little shriveling dread of getting caught in Glamour’s famous “Dos” and “Don’ts” woman-on-the-street feature every month? (Which would have been impossible because I was a northern Ohio teenager, not a New York City commuter. But still.)

I kept my arms covered, year after year. It wasn’t self-hate. It was more like … no need to flaunt one’s imperfections.

But then, you get older. And your aversion to hot, humid weather becomes more intense. And suddenly, you don’t care so much. With our recent spate of oppressive days, knowing that I had a full calendar of outdoor events coming up, I caved.

I bought a few sleeveless dresses. And the earth didn’t tilt off its axis, the stars didn’t disappear from the sky. In fact, I’m sure no one else noticed.

But when I walked by that window and caught an unexpected glimpse of myself, it was a jolt.

Not because I didn’t look like I was 25. I’m used to that.

No, the shock was because I looked exactly like the old Finnish ladies of my childhood. My elderly relatives, my parents’ friends, the church ladies who populated our Lutheran preacher’s family life. The ones who spoke with remnants of Finnish or Canadian accents, or like my mother, a creamy mix of the above.

Those round-faced, soft-bodied women seemed so old to me, way back when, with their sensible shoes and casseroles and dresses forged from Butterick and Simplicity patterns. They didn’t care about New York fashion or ABBA or whatever else was trendy in 1977.

They kept their 1940s hairstyles. They rolled their knee-high stockings down to their ankles.

They bared their arms, pale and wobbly, for the world to see.

Have I joined their ranks?

I’m kind of OK with it if I have. At least during August.

Charlotte is a columnist for The Times. You can reach her at charlottelatvala@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on Beaver County Times: Charlotte Latvala: August heat and sleeveless dresses