You think you’re cool? Even though you’re a grown-up, you still have some style left, right? You’re not quite as thin and tight as you were when you were younger but guys still check you out sometimes. They’re usually old but hey, what the hell. Maybe sometimes you can squeeze your ass into something from the juniors section. After all, aren’t those other departments for people a bit low on the cool scale?
Yesterday morning I thought I was somewhat, a little bit, hopefully cool and hip. By afternoon the veil of denial was lifted and there stood a middle-age woman. Me, but older. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the Older Me in the mirror at the gym. I’ll be running on the treadmill and feeling really awesome about myself. I’ll have my iPod blasting techno punk and I’m visualizing my goddess self running through a dark damp forest and kicking butt along the way. Then, out of the corner of my eye, is the Older Me in the mirror. She does not look like a techno punk goddess running through a forest; she looks like a floppy housewife with a bright pink face. My legs are not gazelle-like, in fact with each step my feet kind of wind outward and I look like a sissy dork trying to catch up with the cool kids.
What brought this all on was a trip to the consignment shop yesterday. I’m ashamed to say that I was trying to pawn some clothes and shoes for Starbucks money. I had some feeling of dread as I approached the hip, cool, 20-something shop across the street from the J.C. But, sadly, I had faith in myself again.
I plopped my three paper grocery bags on the counter and filled out some paperwork. The sweet young shopkeeper (I’ll call her Carnela, I just made it up) said to be patient, that there were two people ahead of me. I decided to get a healthy fruit smoothie a few doors down. Too bad, on the way was a pizza shop that sold by-the-slice. They made me come in and eat a piece. But it was only $2.50.
Then I returned to the consignment shop and tried on some jeans that barely covered my c-section scar. They looked fine as long as I was standing in front of the mirror and holding in my stomach; but my food babies were going to pour over the top like a root beer float on a hot day if I bent over. I decided to get some t-shirts for my YOUTHFUL nephews while I waited. Only $18.00 for four shirts.
Carnela called me over to the counter to tell me how much money she’d give me for my fabulously cool shoes and skirts. Apologetically, she said “I’m sorry; your items are too mature. We won’t be able to take them.” I laughed and dropped my head. The reality set in while I replayed the assault out loud “… too MATURE? Oh my God!” Then out of sheer pity she said “but we’ll take this pair of sandals. Is $6.00 okay?”
All in all, the hour of humiliation cost me $14.50 and probably 25 grams of fat. But as cracked as my delicate ego was, I did finally arrive in the Reality Department, third floor. I looked at the girls shopping in the store and tried to picture them in my black patent leather sling back Franco Sartos and came to the conclusion that they would only wear my stuff to a job interview … at funeral home. And I would only wear their clothes to a costume party. So, we’re even.