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During our commute this morning, I handed a book back to Nora and saw that it had been in publication for 25 years. I laughed and said that was crazy, since that was how old I was. Then I paused, realizing that I was indeed that age…plus five years and ten months. Which makes me painfully close to 31.
I mentioned to Peej that I still felt like I was in my mid-twenties, and if I had to check a box or something, I usually felt pretty jarred to realize that it just wasn’t the case. I started to ask him how old he felt in his mind’s eye and got as far as “How old do you-“
“38,” was his immediate response.
And since he’s only 29, I can shoulder some of that rapid aging onto myself. For our lifestyle, our sleep habits, and my incessant need to know what he’s thinking about.
The subject of age has come up a lot lately- twice this week with my sister, in fact. She was lamenting the fact that, whenever she goes into a store, she’s either in the tween section or the aged and dusty section. And she’s not a big fan of “the skanky jeans” (direct quote) nor, I imagine, is she fond of the oversized cardigan and teensy floral-printed slacks display. So what to do?
Answer: nothing.
Even stores and brands that promise not to make you look like a fifteen year old…somehow do. Or send you decades in the opposite direction.
One of my most shocking incidents from mid-twentyhood occurred in the [at the time] new H&M down on Michigan. While I was happily pawing through eclectic and affordable Euro clothing, I was almost bumped into by a group of teenaged girls.
“Oh my GOD,” one of them squealed at her friends. “You almost wandered into the OLD PERSON SECTION.”
I stared around in horror. Where?! As a twenty three year-old, I didn’t want to be there either! Turns out, it was the whole floor. And I embodied it. Confusingly enough.
Eventually, I gave up on buying “new” things. So here’s what I do now: clothing from college (at one time nearing the spectrum of acceptable fashion, this I promise you) is WORN TO THE GROUND. Also paired with hoodies, grubby shoes (also at one point pretty darned cute), and tie the [unwashed] hair up into a ponytail. Maybe use your toddler’s hair clip, if handy and left on the floor for dead. Voila.
“But Keely,” you ask. “Isn’t that the epitome of youthful dressing? Wearing actual clothing from one’s youth?”
Yes. But while you’ll look like a thirteen year-old, you won’t be a SEXY thirteen year-old. And that’s my point.
My friend Nat and I love to mock those bright yellow bags from Forever 21. Because while, sure, the clothing there is ridiculously affordable and not entirely out of my age range, anything you buy is placed into a neon bag proclaiming you to be FOREVER 21. (Twenty-one 4eva!) This leads the random passerby to believe that indeed, you believe yourself to be twenty-one. Forever.
I like Nora’s method of dressing “her age.” Ever since she was in the womb, we’ve had generous (and impeccably stylish) friends and family load her future closet with clothing so new that P.J. and I are ashamed to touch them with our thrift-store selves. Even more importantly, she stubbornly remains six to nine months behind her current size. That’s right, my [almost] one and a half year old rocks the 12 month clothing. (Just barely, and awfully recently.) This means that her current wardrobe will last- oh, for years. (Maybe 4eva!)
THAT is how it’s done.
For the rest of us [me], let’s just hope that faded and baggy layers (some of them maternity!) come back into raging style. We’ll see who’s laughing then.
It’ll be anyone witnessing the 31 year-old (thinking she’s a 25 year-old) in positively ragged outfits, carting around a designer princess…
…Getting asked if she’s the nanny.
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