Jesus, Mary and Joseph, am I uncomfortable. This morning, I decided I was sick to death of my work clothes, which are a little limited because I haven’t wanted to buy a bunch of new things when I have two large storage bins full of very cute clothes in my basement. Those cute clothes have remained out of reach for me since I seem to be incapable of dropping the last 5 pounds of pregnancy weight, not to mention the last 20 pounds of weight gained since I was a svelte, alcohol-swilling smoker (weird how alcohol + smoking = skinny, but alcohol on its own = goddamnit). Today, though, I thought it was time to torture myself again by trying on a few things I wore 2 summers ago, in the hopes that maybe my body had somehow magically morphed into a different shape since my last masochistic fashion show. And somehow, I managed to fit into a couple of skirts without looking like someone who doesn’t own a mirror, and so I am wearing one today.
But now I think it was premature: I feel like I’m wearing Spanx a size too small and made out of PVC. I don’t want anyone to walk into my office and see my stomach trying to escape from my skirt like the Incredible Hulk. Not to mention, when I was walking across the lobby this morning, sucking in my birth-destroyed stomach, I couldn’t help but think: “this outfit is so 2006; or really, even 2003 if I’m honest. Do I look like mutton dressed as lamb?” I used to pride myself on being relatively tuned into fashion, and felt pretty confident I was the best-dressed attorney in my office. That’s no longer the case – my clothes are mostly generic and bought at the mall. WTF happened? Being a 39-year old mother of a baby isn’t a license to turn into Queen of the Dowds.
Last night I was at book club and my friend was telling us that almost everything she was wearing was from a consignment shop. She had on a fabulous skirt and shoes, both very stylish and of the moment. Another girl there had brought some clothes for the hostess to borrow for a cocktail party: a teal, Missoni-style knit dress and some great, caramel colored Coach sandals. Everything was cuter than what I had on: a black, ¾ sleeve Banana Republic fitted sweater, black J. Crew capri pants, and black, kitten-heeled ballet flats from Nine West. It was a pretty classic style, even kind of Audrey Hepburn, but look at those brands! Could you get any more boring? No, my friends, you could not.
I think I need a stylist.