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I’ll admit it. I went to the mall looking like a fashion disaster victim from one
of those makeover shows on TLC. I wish Stacy and Clinton from “What Not To Wear” would pay a visit to my closet. Ninety percent of my wardrobe is exercise
clothes and scrubs, which are very forgiving for people like me whose weight
tends to fluctuate by 20 pounds. Instead of overpaid stylists to help revamp my
wardrobe, I enlisted the help of my trend-savvy, quite stylish, 15-year-old
niece, Meredith. I needed a makeover and she was eager to do the job.
“Come on, Aunt Dana. Let’s go to Forever 21. I’ll fix you up. I’ll find you something cute to wear in there, and everything is really cheap,
too,” she said. I could see a look in her eyes, like she was fast-forwarding pages
from the latest Seventeen magazine in her mind. “Forever 21. It means if you wear their clothes, you’ll look like you’re 21 forever. Don’t you want to be 21 forever?” Meredith innocently asked.
“No, not really,” I replied. Poor Meredith. So young, so naïve. The only way I’d go back to 21 is if I could take everything I know now, wrap up my last 19
years of life experiences, and pack all that knowledge in the nice, tight
little package that used to be my body.
“Meredith, I’m 40. Women of a certain age should not be shopping in stores called Forever 21
unless they are, indeed, shopping for someone under the age of 21. Certainly
there are rules about things like this,” I said. “Perhaps not mall-enforced rules, but rules of society, like not wearing white
after Labor Day. Every Southern woman knows not to wear white after Labor Day.” My thoughts wandered off into a daydream where I hear Britney, a 16-year-old
sales clerk say, “Sorry ma’am, I need to see your ID. You were born in 1967?! You aren’t allowed to shop here. Perhaps Coldwater Creek on the second level is more your
type store. Their clothes are for mature ladies. My grandma likes to shop
there.”
My niece grabbed my arm and gave it a shake, grounding me back in reality. “Aunt Dana, what are you talking about? We’ve got to get moving. You need some jeans and some cute tops, too—something with color. When we get home, I’ll do your hair and make-up, too.”
We looked at the jewelry and other accessories at the 21 store. I couldn’t bring myself to try on any of the clothes. Rack after rack of polyester,
spandex, rayon, and nylon, some covered in rhinestones, others with a satin
sheen. There was not a natural fiber in the house. If someone lit a match, we’d all burst into flames surrounded by this clothing.
The garments were made from cheap materials, imported from Malaysia, cheaply
sewn together, mass produced, and all appeared to be in size extra small
petite. Do elves shop here? What adult is small enough to fit in these
garments? These clothes are so trendy, you could wear them out to a club one
night and they’ll be out of style by the time you get home the next morning. Oh, but what a
bargain! A brand new shirt for only $6.88? I’ve never seen prices so low.
Meredith was busy trying to put together an ensemble for me, but all I could
think about was some poor little 8-year-old girl sitting at her sewing machine
in a factory somewhere across the sea, piece milling these garments together in
a sweatshop so she can earn her one American dollar for the day. I just can’t do it. Trendy and cute if you are 15. Sad and pathetic if you are 40.
I decided I needed to loosen up, throw caution to the wind and try to embrace
the teen scene, interested to see what the kids are wearing these days. Mall
stores seem to be geared towards the teen shopper. I could tell it was prom
season by the abundance of teen formal wear. I went to the prom in 1983, long
before these kids were even born. Vegas cocktail waitress attire wasn’t appropriate in the 1980s at our prom, but times have changed. All the bright
colors, the loud music, mile-long lines to the cash registers, racks and racks
of misplaced clothing items and the smell of synthetic fibers started to make
me a bit nervous.
Meredith bought a few inexpensive necklaces with big plans to take them apart
and make her own jewelry creations. No matter how hard I tried, I felt like I
was trying to play a role of a person I am clearly not, the role of delusional
middle-aged woman who still thinks she is in her 20s.
Our next stop was another youthful establishment called Wet Seal. I flipped
through the racks of clothing not even quiet sure what I was seeing. Is this a
skirt or a top? Meredith dug through a table of tank tops, trying to find three
colors she liked so she could get the 3 for $12.99 sale price.
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I picked up a size XL tank top, thinking I might actually find something to add
to my workout wardrobe. I held one up to my chest. The top was so tiny; it
looked like it belonged to a small child. Again I asked myself, “Who wears this stuff? When did XL turn into extra small?” I thought it was supposed to be the other way around. Don’t clothing manufacturers tend to give us a false sense of thinness by turning
last year’s size 8 into this year’s size 6? That’s how it works in ladies’ clothing. I’m obviously out of touch with junior department styles and sizes.
“It’s so hard to find size 00 blue jeans,” Meredith said in exasperation.
“Yeah, that sounds like a real problem,” I replied in a sarcastic tone. I had no idea such a size existed.
“It IS a problem,” she whined
dramatically.
I saw a bin full of colorful elastic bands. “Meredith, while you look for those jeans, I’m going to go over there and look at those headbands,” I said.
I picked up one of the bands and realized this was not a headband at all. This
was a pair of underwear, thong underwear. I cannot believe these kids are
wearing thong underwear. Where are their parents? I wanted to tell Meredith to
please stop being a teenager. I’m not ready for her to be this grown up. We should be shopping for her at
Limited Too or Gymboree, not trendy teen clothing stores.
Our next stop was Abercrombie & Fitch. The store was dark and the music was blaring so loud, I looked around to
see if we’d accidentally entered a nightclub instead of a clothing store. There was an
entire wall stocked floor to ceiling with blue jeans. A college-aged sales
associate was steady folding T-shirts, oblivious to the fact that I actually
needed help retrieving blue jeans from the top shelf. He must have been too
distracted by the dance music. Maybe his eyes were strained from having to work
in the dark. Whatever the reason, he was of no help to me.
Meredith found a ladder and hopped up there herself to grab several pairs of
jeans. I’m not a big fan of the low rise jeans, but that is all we could find. Any size
that fit around my gigantic hips had a gap in the waist of at least 3 inches.
When I sat down on the bench in the fitting room, half my rear end was exposed.
I modeled each pair of jeans for Meredith.
“These are too big in
the waist. See, my underwear is showing. I can’t wear these in public,” I said, disappointed that we were two hours into our shopping trip and I had nothing to show for it.
“That’s the way they are supposed to fit,” Meredith explained. “Everybody’s rear end shows. You just need to wear a belt.”
I don’t agree with that logic. Pants are supposed to cover your back side, not offer a
little peek of what should not be seen. For women over 40, it’s time to cover that stuff up, not have cracks exposed. Nobody wants to see
that.
We weaved in and out of the larger department stores, but our mission to make me
over was a no-go. I noticed leggings are back in style. I used to wear those in
the ‘80s. And look, madras plaid shorts with grosgrain ribbon belts. I used to wear
those 25 YEARS AGO when I was a slave to the “Official Preppy Handbook.” When I was a teenager in the mid-1980s, we all looked like we’d just stepped off a golf course. The look has been tweaked a bit for 2008, but
the style is basically the same—just trashier.
I decided before the mall closed, I needed to steer Meredith towards stores
where I knew I’d find sensible clothing for middle-aged women, like Eddie Bauer and Talbot’s. In the end, my niece did select a pair of figure-flattering jeans and three
shirts to wear with them to update my look. To her credit, she did a very good
job. Most days, I still look like a Glamour “don’t,” but with Meredith’s youthful influence, maybe there is hope.
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