For the past few years it has been practically illegal to buy a pair of jeans that did not display some portion of your underwear. Now that I’m adjusted to wearing low rise boot cuts the fashion industry is trying to bring back the straight leg skinny ones. The Gap has even exhumed Audrey Hepburn to advertise them which must certainly be against the law and they should be ashamed of themselves.
Before my daughter pried me out of my ‘mommy’ jeans and into her own version of Project Runway, I spent several years channeling Stevie Nicks in her ‘Gypsy’ days – retro peasant skirts with velvet tunics and faux motorcycle boots. The motorcycle became a reality, though. In the fall of 2000 I remarried a lovely man who rides a classic Honda from the ’70s. Equipped with factory exhaust. I don’t know why that’s impressive but it always elicits a low, respectful whistle from the other weekend warriors Husband chats with when we’re stopped at lights.
In the two years after my divorce and before I met Husband, I was a single parent to two teenagers. Very carefully, I began stepping back into a world I had been insulated from for the 18 years of my marriage. Three people in one house all going on dates. Talk about worlds colliding.
At first I perused personal ads and circled the ones I might call if I ever decided to call any and how likely was that? One day I finally did and wound up having an annoying conversation with a man who assured me that he only cheated on his wife because she cheated first. I silently vowed to screen the ads more aggressively. The next call seemed to be more promising. Until I realized with horror that I was speaking to the father of one of my children’s classmates. Of all the gin joints in all the world. . .
Outside the house, I discovered that new roads require different travel companions and I was suddenly out of sync with my married friends’ lifestyles. A gathering of former coworkers from a newspaper I had recently left put me back in touch with Suzy, 12 years younger than me but also newly divorced. Wickedly clever, Suzy was all highlighted hair, tight clothes and enormous boobs she referred to as ‘the boys’. Suzy wanted to go out. I said I’d go with her.
These are dance clubs, she advised me, and you need to look like you belong there. So I found myself standing with Suzy in my walk-in closet one evening surveying the surroundings. “Okay,” she gestured expressively with her long, metallic painted nails. “Where are your club clothes?” I looked at her. “Are you on crack? I’m 43, Suzy Q. I drive a navy blue sedan. There are no club clothes.”
Undaunted, she began pulling things off hangers and tossing them at me until we were both satisfied. She that I was showing enough skin and me that I could risk running into someone I knew from real life without being mortified. Looking at myself in the mirror, I reflected – in the glow of Suzy’s body glitter – on how many different incarnations a person can have in one lifetime, even wearing the same hat: New mom, soccer mom, stay-at-home mom, PTA mom, working mom, divorced mom, dating mom, remarried mom. Always something new to learn.
For instance: Flocked velvet Steve Madden platforms make anything else you put on scream I’m ready to dance! In case you didn’t know.