The other night I went to a concert where I was immersed in a sea of millenials. I hadn't been in such a concentrated stew of 20 year olds since I was in college. It was fascinating. And made me feel ridiculously old, of course. But oh, the people watching! I felt like I an ethnographer viewing a culture rife with pseudo-bohemian fashion and '90s-era goatees. Painstakingly-applied makeup and tie-dye tanks emblazoned with pot leafs sort of cancel each other out, yes? I know, I know. Just call me Judgey McJudgerson. Sorry, but I feel a bit of curmudgeonly observation is warranted after having spent these many years in the world. Well, at least compared to some.
Let me provide some more context. I've always been into fashion. I've even been known to succumb to my share of questionable trends. Hello, pumped bangs! Hello, Hammer pants! Hello, bodysuits! Hello, iridescent taupe lipstick! I love me some clothes and I'm willing to take a few risks, but as I've gotten older I (usually) realize what works for my style and my body type. And I attempt to be age appropriate, although sometimes I worry that I skew too young. Or I used to worry. Because I'm sure I looked positively ancient at that concert in my sleeveless button-up, ripped black jeans and flat sandals. (If I see one more girl in the music festival uniform, I may swear off summer concerts forever. When will that look die?!? I love cut-offs, but c'mon, let's liven things up already.)
Oh, and speaking of ripped jeans, can somebody please make some skinny jeans with reinforced knees for us moms? Within a couple months of wear, my stretchy skinny jeans have highlighted (faded) knees, which isn't really the bizness. Fortunately distressed is in because I've actually busted through quite a few pairs from so much squatting/kneeling/crawling around on the floor with my littles. But if I want a clean, solidly-hued pair, I have to be extra careful. And let's face it. That's just not happening in this season of my life.
I'd also like a sundress that artfully hides my not-so-toned middle. It's not my idea of a good time to get asked if I'm pregnant when my daughter is 22 months old. And I'm not pregnant.
|Something like this?|
|In my dreams, Missoni.|
Okay, fine. I miss being able to throw anything on and look amazing. If I was 20-something in this era, I would dabble in belly baring. Hell, I would flaunt more of the body that I used to have. I don't fault those girls really. They're experimenting, having fun, making the most of their assets. What I don't miss is the fidgeting and lacking confidence in my choices. I saw so much of that awkward hair flipping and tugging on too-short mini dresses. It made me realize how happy I am to no longer be that age. I may not love everything about myself, but I've come to accept a lot of me. To feel comfortable in my own skin. And I'd like to think that shines through the black eyeliner I still adore. I'll rock my skinny jeans and keep working on that muffin top. I'll remind myself that when my kids go through their experimental fashion phases to let them do their thing.
Just please, kiddos, choose your tattoos wisely and remember that sunblock is your face's best friend. I've had to learn the hard way.