I was informed today that a woman in her thirties does not (read: is forbidden to) wear jeans to a baby shower. Apparently my jeans, which are far more expensive than my ten dollar Old Navy slacks, are not worthy of Nicoise salad and Diaper Genies. So with the twenty or so seconds I had free this afternoon, I stopped by a patchouli-smelling clothing shop to try to find something a woman in her thirties might wear.
And there it was. Hanging there as if it had every right to exist alongside the cashmere cardigans and sweater dresses.
Anyone who knows me will concur: I am no Heidi Klum when it comes to fashion. I haven't owned a belt in... well let's just say the last time I owned a belt was when I had a coordinating scrunchie. The only people who have the same interest in shoes as me are nuns, nurses, and geriatrics. But I can say this with certainty: nothing screams 'yeast infection' quite like the bodysuit.
I was removed from this whole fashion business for the last three years when fitting in to my community involved more language lessons and less time at the mall. But come on. What could have gone so wrong in our culture that the bodysuit is back? Have we un-learned how to tuck in our shirts? Has there some sort of porn craze involving wedgies, tiny elastic wastbands, and triple-snaps that I don't know about? I really don't get it.
I guess with fashion, as with so many things, the choices we make seem right at the time. I assume now a woman in her thirties must assume a more motherly role at the clothing store, one in which we coax other girls who might become transfixed with the seemingly logical design of the contraption, and be tempted to go astray.
'Not this one, sweetie,' I hear myself saying to the strange teenager next to me in the store, mentally assembling her skinny jeans and matching body suit for her date that night. I'll put my arm around her and in my best woman-in-her-thirties voice whisper, 'You'll thank me later.'