My dog is an 18-pound Boston terrier named Pickles, and she is the reason I get dressed most mornings. That may sound a little sad. A year or two ago, I probably would’ve agreed. I would’ve heard myself say it and thought, Good lord, has it really come to this?
But I don’t think that anymore. Pickles gets me out of my pajamas, out the front door, and into the day. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that getting dressed for her feels different from almost every other reason I’ve gotten dressed in my life.
For most of my life, getting dressed meant somebody else needed me somewhere
I was a teacher for my whole career, which meant waking up at an hour that should probably be illegal, putting on clothes I didn’t especially care about, and heading into a classroom full of kids. These were not precious outfits.
I was crouching next to tiny chairs, leaning over desks, getting hugged by sticky-fingered third graders after lunch, wiping marker off things marker was never supposed to be on.
Then I’d come home, change immediately, and start whatever the second half of the day required. Dinner. Practices. Homework. Laundry. Errands. I got dressed because students were waiting for me, because my own kids needed to be somewhere, because there was an appointment or a meeting or some reason somebody expected me to show up.
Looking back, clothes were mostly part of the uniform I put on to go be needed. I had a rotation of maybe eight outfits that could survive chalk dust, playground supervision, and a rainy-day indoor recess where twenty-two kids played tag in a room designed for sitting.
Nothing in that rotation sparked joy, to borrow a phrase. It served a purpose, and the purpose was never about me.
I didn’t dislike it. I didn’t think about it much at all.
It was automatic, the same way brushing your teeth is automatic. The day requires it, and then the day is already happening.
When I retired, the pajamas felt like freedom
After I hung up the Cheeto-dust-stained cardigans, I stopped getting dressed unless I had a reason. Lunch with a friend, sure. Doctor’s appointment, fine. Otherwise, it was me, my pajamas, my porch, and no guilt about it.
And I loved that for a while. After decades of having every morning assigned to me before I even woke up, there was a relief in realizing nobody needed me to be anywhere. I could drink coffee slowly. I could stay in the same clothes until noon.
I could spend a day doing almost nothing and discover that the world somehow kept turning without me managing any part of it.
But somewhere around month six or seven, the freedom got a little too comfortable. I wasn’t unhappy. I wasn’t falling apart. I was still seeing friends, still going to lunch, still reading.
But I was starting most days without much momentum. The mornings had gotten shapeless. I’d pour the coffee, sit on the porch, and wait for a reason to get up that never quite came, and some mornings the pajamas stopped being a choice and started being the absence of one.
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Then I adopted Pickles, and getting dressed became something I chose
Pickles is ridiculous and bossy and completely convinced the whole neighborhood exists for her inspection. She needs to go out four or more times a day, which means I have four or more reasons to stand up, look in the mirror, and put on real clothes. Somewhere along the way I started treating those walks like little appointments with the outside world.
I’d get up, look outside, think about the weather, and decide what I wanted to wear. Not what was appropriate for a classroom. Not what could survive a child spilling juice on it. What I wanted to wear.
A jacket I forgot I owned. Sneakers I like instead of ones I grabbed first. Earrings for a ten-minute walk, because why not? A hat that makes me look like I’m going somewhere, even though I’m going to the end of the block and back.
I started noticing colors again. I wore a red scarf on a Wednesday for no reason at all, and a woman at the park said she liked it, and I realized nobody had commented on what I was wearing in years. I started having fun with clothes again.
For decades, what I put on was a function of what the day demanded. Now it’s a function of what I’m in the mood for and what looks good with the leash.
Pickles does not care what I’m wearing, which may be exactly why I enjoy it so much. She’s not evaluating. She’s not expecting professionalism or appropriateness. She’s standing at the door, and the only dress code is shoes.
I kept thinking the reason needed to be bigger
I think I had this idea that retirement was supposed to come with some impressive new purpose. A volunteer position. A grandchild I was constantly helping with. A meaningful project. A cause. The kind of answer that sounded good when somebody at a party asked what I was doing with myself.
My dog needs to go outside did not seem like enough. It didn’t sound like a purpose. It sounded like an errand.
But who decided every reason has to be big?
Pickles gets me outside. She makes me move. She gives the morning a shape. She makes me say hello to neighbors, notice the sky, put on clothes I like, and start the day instead of watching it pass from the porch. That seems like a lot for an 18-pound dog.
Obviously, there’s a line between this and giving up.
If I stopped seeing people, stopped taking care of myself, or lost interest in everything that used to matter to me, I’d take that seriously. But I also don’t think every older person needs a packed calendar or some grand second act to prove they’re doing retirement the right way. Some of us are doing fine with a small life and a loud dog.
A small reason can still be a real reason. And Pickles, who is currently snoring on my foot, is mine.
She thinks we have somewhere important to be
So yes, most mornings I get dressed because Pickles is standing by the door staring at me like I’ve personally delayed the sunrise. I’m fine with that now.
For most of my life, getting dressed meant somebody else needed something from me. A classroom full of eight-year-olds. A family that needed dinner on the table.
These days, I put on a shirt I like, clip on her leash, and walk outside because one small dog thinks we have somewhere important to be. Turns out that’s enough to get the day started.
And most days, once I’m dressed and outside, the rest of the day follows on its own.
Editor’s Note: “As Told to Bolde” stories are inspired by reader submissions, interviews, and accounts shared with our editorial team. Details are often changed, combined, or dramatized, and our editors use AI tools in the writing process. See our Editorial Policy.
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