In 1998, the Red Hat Society was founded by a woman “of a certain age” who was inspired by a poem by Jenny Joseph titled “Warning.” It begins:

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple,

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.”

While I appreciate the “let’s thumb our nose at the world” spirit, I’ve never gotten into the Red Hats. No offense to the legions of ladies who lunch in crimson-feathered chapeaus and aubergine pant suits, but, to me, going out in mismatched clothing isn’t much of a declaration of freedom. Heck, I’ve been doing that since I was 5.

Besides, there’s a certain comfort in numbers. You can get away with looking outrageous if those surrounding you look equally odd. Take Shriner conventions. Or, Lady GaGa concerts.

What takes verve, and nerve — the courage that comes with age — is going to the grocery store in sweaty workout clothes and no makeup.

Now THAT’S thumbing your nose at the world. And, this week, I thumbed, baby!

It’s not like I always dress up to go to market. I’ll occasionally wear ratty shorts or a paint-splattered T-shirt, especially to the natural foods store where people will stop in — covered with dirt from their arugula patches — for more flaxseed granola in bulk.

But, I do doll myself up, if only for the inevitable run-in with someone I know in the produce aisle. (Has anyone ever escaped a trip to the store without bumping into someone who wanted to chat? It’s the blessing and curse of living in a small town.)

The last time I darkened the supermarket’s door without a layer of mascara and lipstick was in 1982.

That is, until last week.

There I was, exercising at the gym after a long, sedentary day at the office when that nagging, pressing question popped into my brain for the 10,855th time (I did the math): What will we have for dinner?

It was 5:30 p.m., and I had a half-circuit to go to complete my workout. Perspiration had melted whatever makeup was left on my face. The ring of sweat around the collar of my Carpe’ Mañana T-shirt was expanding by the second.

It would be so easy, I thought, to dash into the grocery across the street, grab a roaster chicken and hit the salad bar. Except for one thing: I looked like an old gray mare who was rode hard and put away wet!

Then, something happened. Maybe it was the pulsating of my thighs in the abductor/adductor machine. Maybe it was “Into the Groove” blaring on the stereo. Whatever it was, suddenly, I felt empowered. Like Madonna, but with jiggly bits.

Finishing my workout, I hopped in my car, threw caution out the window and drove to the store.

Sitting in the parking lot, I watched as customers came and went in stylish work clothes or coordinated leisurewear. Everyone was annoyingly perspiration-free.

“Should have gone to the natural foods store,” I admonished myself.

To heck with it, I thought. I sprinted inside — sunglasses on, heart pounding, chin tucked to my chest — and made a mad dash for the roaster chickens.

Bird in hand, I made a b-line for the salad bar, suddenly aware of a second line of sweat down the middle of the back. As I passed a man wearing khaki pants and a crisp blue polo, he laughed. Guffawed, really.

“Oh, God,” I said to myself. “Is he laughing at me or my T-shirt’s clever slogan? Surely he realizes I’ve been exercising. Workout sweat is more acceptable than flop sweat or hot flash sweat.”

The man continued to giggle under his breath, so I hurriedly built my salad and hit the “express” self-checkout machine.

“PLACE THE ITEM ON THE SCANNER,” the voice blared. “DO YOU HAVE ANY COUPONS?” “PLACE THE ITEM IN THE BAG.” Could she BE any more conspicuous?

I swiped my card and bolted for the car.

Back in the driver’s seat, exhausted and humiliated, I thought about the Red Hat ladies and the comfort in numbers.

Maybe I’ll start my own club, I thought. The Sweaty T-Shirt and No Makeup Society. We’ll meet every day after the gym and storm the grocery store together, thumbing our noses at a dolled-up, perspiration-free world.

Or, maybe it’d be easier just to go out. I’ve got a red ball cap and purple T-shirt I could wear …

— Cathy Hamilton is a 54-year-old empty nester, wife, mother and author. She can be reached at 832-6319.