Apparently, I am at that awkward phase that is in between ages or a ‘Tween. Obviously not a teenager between childhood and adult hood, but a *gasp* mid-aged adult on the verge of, well, older-hood. This between stage is particularly trying in the clothing department and the weight department. Let’s start with clothes.
I have a quiver of pretty vintage dresses in my closet that I used to wear to work. In the last couple of years, the expansion of my mid-section inhibits the wearing of these dresses as vintage people were SMALL, man. I am no longer small.
Without these dress options, my daily clothing choices have dwindled to the same few pairs of either khaki or black pants. The skirts in the closet are for vintage people, too, as the waist now wants to sit up somewhere under my boobs, which is really no place for a waist to be.
My fitted dress shirts are slowly being replaced with more, shall we say, blousy shirts that flutter around my rapidly rising and flaring hips and cover my arms. The high heels I wore to work every day for seven years are cobwebbing it in the corner of the closet, having been replaced by sensible flats.
All of this is fine in many respects. I mean, after months of being miserable in my low-rise jeans that bind my belly and make everything mush out the sides, I bought some jeans that are made for the more, (ugh), mature woman and in larger size and it was like a whole new day! They fit and were comfortable and didn’t look terrible, sort of Younger Grandma Chic, if that’s a look.
The thing is I don’t really know who this person is yet; this person who wears flats and blousy shirts and stretchy jeans, khaki and black, a startling lack of color or originality. Vintage clothes are unique and interesting and helped me put on some exterior personality. I have yet to find personality in this new way of dressing, to find a more mature identity with flair.
So, for now I’m in the ‘Tween, getting through the last of the mourning for my lovely dresses with the 25 inch waist and spaghetti straps, while trying to accept that I MAY (I’m not willing to give up yet) never wear those again. And trying not to freak out about possibly ending up in a caftan by the time I’m 50, even though some days, I must admit, that sounds divine. As long as it’s vintage.
PS: What I don’t want is for this to be a chick-lit blog. Meaning, I don’t want it to be about clothes and weight loss and kittens and relationships and pop culture. But guess what – it is, because I am a chick and this is my… lit?
Next up: begin a ‘Tween and the issues of weight. Betcha can’t wait.