Who knew the letter F followed E? Has it been like this all this time?
Crazy. The alphabet: a fluid ancient relic…seems so oxymoronic…
So, spoiler alert, but G stands for Grit.
Anyway, I’ve decided that the biggest, kindest, least offensive F-word I can come up with as pertains to aging is Fashion.
My life through, I’ve never had a fashion sense, nor have I had the funds to pay for one, and now that I’m middlin’, well…I can’t find a sense of fashion to save my life.
I’ve tried! I go to the mall…ew…and I see what the girls are wearing. Emphasis on girls, because I’ve yet to find a chick my age with trendy wear.
Is it a thing, clothes for Middlin’s? Where? Where are these clothes?
And again, I need them to be affordable.
I’d love to dress like Jane Fonda in “Frankie and Grace” — Netflix; check it out (have you learned yet of my Netflix/Hulu/Amazon/and-now-Acorn affliction?) — but I can’t pull it off.
I could afford one piece, maybe two, and considering I’d have to wear more than one article of clothing, I’d be dead in the water, but sporting a fetching popped collar.
Nope, won’t work.
Here’s a funny-but-true tale of my latest shopping adventure.
No joke, I was at Target for sundries, those little things you go to purchase because you’re out of them but in dire need of a refill but doggone it, you end up with a cart of feeling-sorry-for-myself-and-this-one-little-thing-will-change-my-life…four times over.
A cart of crap, that’s what I was wheeling around.
And since I can’t resist a clearance rack of last season’s fashions I pivoted quickly when I spied a sign beckoning me to peruse.
It was emerald green, ruched at the signs, v-neck, three-quarter sleeve — it screamed at me, “You need me! I’m cute! I’m a lovely color, great for work or play in a pliable cotton, plus I’m machine washable!”
It was so me.
I checked the tag, chanting, “Don’t be petite small, don’t be petite small…”
And it wasn’t!
It was my size — large — which I’m not sure I technically should wear but it fits on all the days: the fat days, the not-so-fat days. You know. All the days.
It sported a maternity label.
Did I shove it back on the rack quickly and dash away?
Did I ponder a moment, thinking of the good ol’ days, when my body did what it needed to and it wasn’t a problem?
I most assuredly did.
When I was pregnant, I was so happy. My butt could sag, my boobs had phenomenal growth, everything shifted at random and it was all delightful as long as I had a Hershey’s bar in hand.
And here’s the other thing: maternity tops are for growing bellies or, I suggest, hide things that shouldn’t be where they are.
Am I right?
No. I didn’t buy the maternity top. But I’m sure it’s still there, hanging from a rack, tightly squeezed between petite leggings and an XL jumper, waiting for me to mull things a bit…
But my final question is still unresolved: what the heck are women my age wearing? And do they like it? And where did they find these treasures???