I saw it hanging on a hanger at the store. I’d only gone in to grab a bottle of shampoo, but somehow I meandered aimlessly through housewares, then electronics, and finally women’s clothing. Before me hung a caftan, a flowy, flowery, dress that set off the sound of harps in my head. It was so fabulous, so indulgent, so … not me. I was pulled to it like a moth to flame.
The caftan is nothing, really. It’s basically a rectangular dress with armholes, a boxy affair made of fabric, loose and loud and free-flowing. It hints at being from another culture and another time, but my point of reference for the caftan is Mrs. Roper, the landlady in the hit sitcom “Three’s Company.” It’s a show that began in 1977 and ended in 1984, and in the years after that through my elementary and middle school years, I watched it often in syndication, usually immediately after school when I fixed myself a bowl of cereal. Jack Tripper, played by John Ritter, was as clumsy as he was graceful. He could enter a room, trip over his own feet, stumble to the couch, flip over the back of it and land effortlessly on the floor with a comically confused look on his face. His roommates, Janet and Chrissy, were just as loveable. By today’s standards, the show was sweet and wholesome, but of course the situations that came up between the roommates made fertile soil for double entendre. Coming in and out of “the kids’” apartment was Mrs. Roper, the landlady who owned the apartment building with her long-suffering husband, Stanley.
Helen Roper, with her bright red curly hair, clunky 70s jewelry, and flamboyant caftans, was a scene stealer. She was a woman of a certain age, who vacillated between being a mother figure and friend to the young roommates. Her voice had a loud but melodious quality. Most of all, she was unapologetic. She knew who she was, stuck with her core beliefs, and never, ever stood in the shadow of her husband.
Honestly, Mrs. Roper wasn’t a character I thought of very often until last fall, when a friend of mine posted photos on social media of her participating in a “Mrs. Roper Romp.” I saw a gaggle of women (and men!) dressed to the nines in their clunky jewelry, shocking red wigs, and enormous glasses. There was dancing and laughing and I could just imagine what it must’ve looked like to see a parade of floaty caftans parading down the street, announcing their arrival at each stop during the pub crawl by exclaiming, “Hi, Helen!”
I thought of her again last week, when oppressive heat and humidity had me thinking of cold, refreshing drinks and loose clothing that would be kind to my perimenopausal body, which is betraying me at every turn. A caftan, I thought, would be the perfect thing for around the house. That’s when I realized that I am — oh, the horror! — a “woman of a certain age.”
The caftan went directly from the rack in the store into my shopping cart and came home with me: it’s a flamboyant affair of greens and blues, covered with pineapples that seem to be at the same time a razzle-dazzly display of leopard print. It feels extravagant. Putting it on is like dressing up in a superhero costume. My Mrs. Roper alter ego wants to dance in the living room, spin around in a flourish as I walk through my kitchen, and throw my head back when I laugh. The caftan compels me to put on my biggest hoop earrings and deck out my arms with bracelets that jangle when I walk.
It’s a butterfly moment: the caterpillar emerges from her cocoon and spreads her colorful Mrs. Roper wings.
“Hi, Helen!” I say to myself in the mirror. I stand up straighter and wonder if I’ll ever be able to wear clothes that fit tightly around my waistline again. Why would I? I am a woman of a certain age, and I have no apologies. Mrs. Roper is emerging from her cocoon, and looking in the mirror, she looks a lot like me.
