I've always felt that I was born in the wrong era. That instead of living the life of a baby boomer - through assassinations, Vietnam, Watergate, space shuttles and disco - I should have lived between the world wars.
And probably in England.
I would have loved being the mistress of a manor house in a time before television and computers, handling my correspondence at my writing table every morning and setting menus for the cook. A time when everyone dressed for dinner and made witty conversation in the library after.
But I just finished reading Wife Dressing: The Fine Art of Being a Well-Dressed Wife by the late fashion maven Anne Fogarty, and I've changed my mind. Now the 1950s are looking very good to me.
The book was first published in 1959 - prime time in my mother's life - and has just been re-issued with an introduction by fashion writer Rosemary Feitelberg.
It is about the care and feeding of a woman's wardrobe so that she will always look great for her husband and her appearance will never reflect badly on him.
As a wife, she writes, you are "an appendage of your husband, Adam's rib that was separated from him to form woman and now spiritually return to his side."
Retro, dated and sexist, sure. But Fogarty's irrepressible enthusiasm for her subject makes this book a delight. It is a combination of fashion savvy and wifely advice, and it gives a pretty clear picture of what was expected of women in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
For those of us who had mothers who lived during the time of kid gloves, fur wraps, billowing petticoats and dressing up to go into town, reading this book is like waking from a half-remembered dream.
"Wife-dressing is many things," Fogarty begins. "An art. A science. A labor of love. A means of self-expression. And, above all, a contributing factor to a happy marriage."
Dress for everything, she advises, and dress appropriately. Never wear an aging cocktail dress to the office or a beat-up wool for housework. "Their original design was for something quite different and they will be uncomfortable as well as unattractive."
Fogarty, who brags lightly about her 18-inch waist, had rules that must be followed: Be relentless in weeding out of your wardrobe items that are out of style, and only shop for clothes when you are in the right mood or you will make poor choices.
And she had rules you can break - tweeds are not just for the country. "I love tweed for cocktails in town." And you can dress your child in black if she has dark hair and the skin tones of a Renaissance portrait.
My parents lived on the fringe of the world Fogarty describes. A time when the executive came home to find a martini waiting for him. A time when having the boss and his wife to dinner was a career move. A time when silk brocade lounging pajamas were an extravagant gift from him to her.
In Fogarty's world, every woman looked like Tippi Hedren in The Birds - perfectly turned out, even in gathering doom.
"A healthy respect for your clothes shows an even healthier respect for your body and yourself as a person and a wife," she wrote. "Your husband may tease you about 'Care and Feeding,' but you may be sure his teasing will be tempered with pride."
I think I would have loved to live in that world, where a woman's dressing room was filled with cashmere and silk and leather and pearls instead of jeans, cotton Ts and sensible shoes.
A world where the occasion dictated what you wore, and if you followed the rules, you always looked the part you were playing.
susan.reimer@baltsun.com