Middle age is, fashion-wise, the evil step-mirror of adolescence. Just as my poor (and I do mean poor) teen self had to figure out an image to present to the world on a pauper's budget, incorporating cultural grace notes (well, on a good day that term might apply) and tribal insignia into the personal style I was building, identifying who I was and who I wanted to be, what my body could carry off and what I would be wise to give up on, how many ruffles and flounces a tall girl could wear without looking like a giant baby, now I'm monitoring how much skin (I'm down to ankles and wrists now) I can realistically show, whether those puffed sleeves make me look like I'm wearing my nighty, whether it's time to give up the boho look that served me so well and obscured so many imperfections for so long.
It's a tough process, and I don't have the advantages of youth this time. Now it's not just about finding enhancements. It's about hiding the truth—and doing so without the loose flowing garments that now make me look a little goofy.
I pass some young beauty on the street and think, Oh, I'd like to get that skirt, only to realize that it's not the skirt, it's the girl. Harem pants may look adorable on an art student, but they'd make me look like a lunatic.
Fashion is like eating. Unlike drinking or smoking, which you can give up altogether, you've got to wear something no matter how high-minded you are, and it's going to say something about you, so you've got to make some choices. And the choices are difficult—and getting more so all the time.
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