A letter from a reader

At 61, comfortable finally stopped meaning I had given up

I have never written one of these before, and I nearly did not, because I can already hear what some of you are thinking. Dungarees. At sixty-one. I thought exactly the same thing.

Let me explain how I got here. Somewhere in the last few years, getting dressed stopped being easy. The waistbands started digging in. The zips became a fiddle. And without quite deciding to, I found myself reaching for the same elasticated, apologetic sort of clothes every morning, the ones that do not ask anything of you and do not give anything back either.

Comfortable, yes. But every time I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror I thought, when did I start dressing like I had given up.

That is the trap nobody warns you about. You can be comfortable, or you can feel like yourself, and after a certain age the shops seem to think you cannot have both.

Then a friend turned up to the market in a pair

Not the dungarees you are picturing. A soft sage green pair covered in the most beautiful little embroidered wildflowers, poppies and daisies and lavender, worn over a plain white tee. She looked comfortable and she looked wonderful, and I did not think those two things could go together any more.

They are from Evans Melbourne, a small Australian boutique that quietly dresses women our age. They do a whole summer collection of them, jumpsuits and dungarees, in dozens of prints. I ordered the green wildflower pair that evening, fully expecting to be sending them back by Friday.

What happened at the 70th

I wore them to a 70th lunch in somebody's back garden, over a white tee, with flat sandals.

Four women asked me where they were from before I had even got a drink. One of them was Deb from next door, who I have known for twenty years and who has never once commented on anything I have worn. She said I looked like I had made an effort for once. I have decided to take that as a compliment.

I have barely had them off since. In the garden, down to the shops, round to my daughter's for Sunday lunch. You step into them over a top and you are dressed, all in one, in about four seconds.

Three things I have learned since

One. Nothing digs in. There is no waistband fighting you and nothing to tuck in. You put them on and then you simply forget about them, which is not something I can say for most of my wardrobe.

Two. They are cool to wear. The fabric is soft and light, so they stay comfortable right through a warm afternoon, and the shape is roomy enough that nothing clings when it heats up.

Three. The print does the work. The little wildflowers are what stop them looking like workwear. A plain white tee underneath and flat sandals, and that is the whole outfit decided.

About the price

I will be honest, the price made me suspicious more than anything.

They are A$74.95. They were A$150.

My first thought was that there had to be a catch, because comfortable clothes that actually look nice usually cost a good deal more than that.

There is no catch that I have found. It is a small boutique selling directly, delivery is free, and they run a spring sale as the new season's stock comes in.

I read the reviews before I ordered, the way I imagine you are doing now. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars. Not the suspiciously perfect five you see on some sites, which if anything made me trust it more. One woman had written, "I bought the green pair for the garden and now I practically live in them. So easy to throw on, nothing digs in, and I have had lovely comments." That was the one that decided it for me.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were having a cuppa out the back and you asked me, this is what I would say.

If you have quietly started reaching for elasticated everything because nothing with a waistband feels good any more, but some part of you hates that you have, it is worth ten minutes of an evening to have a look.

Not because a pair of dungarees changes anything. It does not. But being comfortable and still feeling like yourself, at the same time, is a small thing I had stopped believing was on offer, and I would rather you did not stop believing it either.

The sale is on now, and the nicest prints go first.

I am sixty-one and I live in these now. I did not see that coming, and I could not be happier about it.

Robyn