I had been looking at a particular shirt for weeks every time I passed through the mall. It was one of those bright floral designs in a rayon fabric that the label demanded be hand washed in cold water. But I knew from experience that if I bought it I’d toss it in the machine on the warm water permanent press cycle along with everything else. If it survived the ordeal it would then become my favorite shirt because the two of us had bonded together to outwit the manufacturer’s instructions. I don’t just wear my clothes. I have relationships with them.
The day I finally stopped to try on the object of my desire, I was shopping at the mall with my teenage daughter.
“There it is!” I pointed excitedly at a rack of shirts from across the aisle. My daughter looked at me stone-faced. I gently removed one from its plastic hanger and slipped it on over my T-shirt, rotating my body slowly in front of the mirror to catch the full glorious effect.
“What do you think?” I asked my shopping companion. She watched me in the mirror, expressionless. She chose her words deliberately.
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s not really you.”
“What do you mean ‘not really me’? Who could you see wearing a shirt like this?”
“Someone with no taste,” she replied somberly.
I looked at my willowy daughter, clad in thigh-high cutoffs with strings hanging to her knees and an oversized T-shirt bearing the emblem of a national motor oil company. Something told me her fashion advice was sound.
This made me wonder if I had somehow crossed that imaginary line where a woman can no longer distinguish between what is in style and what is flattering or age appropriate. You see evidence of this everywhere. There’s the 50-year-old lady walking next to you on the street in a cropped baby tee, bicycle shorts and a silver bead necklace with her name spelled out in blocks. You want to tap her on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, madam. Get a grip.”
My personal nightmare involves the flip side of this fashion debacle. I fear becoming my grandmother. I know that at some point in a person’s life, they no longer care if they walk out of their apartment in a house dress and foam slippers because they have more pressing concerns to occupy their thoughts. However, I have a deal with my friend Caryn. If at any time in our life one of us sees the other leaving the house wearing something that reveals the tops of wide-band taupe knee-hi’s, permission is granted to shoot first and ask questions later.
In the meantime, I try to accept and even praise the styles my kids have adopted. I tell my 12-year-old son that it is very wise of him to purchase men’s extra-large clothing for his barely 5-foot frame because this will cut down on shopping time and expense when he is fully grown. It is only when passing clusters of students in front of the high school wearing jeans with knee-level crotches that I have been known to absent-mindedly comment that this is one fashion statement I simply do not get. At which point my daughter reminds me that I’m not supposed to get it. It’s not for me.
Perhaps the key is to have faith in your own personal sense of style and follow it with confidence. Only yesterday, I purchased a pair of pants in a delicious cinnamon color that match absolutely nothing in my closet. I held a brief conference with my hanging clothes and we’re all agreed. I’m going back for the rayon shirt.
Copyright 1996 by author