At 35, I find myself with a wardrobe that spans sizes 4 to 14, a reflection of the inevitable changes that come with age. It’s a familiar story: my body has evolved, with softness where once there was smoothness. Varicose veins have taken up residence on the backs of my legs, and low-rise jeans are a battle that often leads to unwanted wardrobe malfunctions. Meanwhile, low-cut tops reveal stretch-marked cleavage, which has seen better days. Thankfully, I’ve moved beyond the struggle of accepting my “mom bod.” Now, I’m all about enhancing, tucking, and cleverly dressing to embrace what I have—because let’s face it, there’s no going back to those junior-sized jeans. I proudly wear WOMEN’S-sized jeans, and I won’t apologize for it.
Despite having the wisdom to know how to dress appropriately, I still feel perplexed every time I walk into a clothing store. I navigate to the right section (definitely not juniors), and then the confusion hits me like a wave. Everything either feels too matronly or too flashy. And honestly, it seems like I’ve lived through every trend before—stonewashed jeans? Please, they were a mistake the first time. Flannel shirts? Really? And don’t even get me started on midriff tops from my college days.
After sifting through racks, I finally select a few items that seem like they could work and head to the fitting room. Fitting rooms are among the humblest places in a woman’s life. I’ve wrestled with dresses and swimsuits, feeling either disappointment or joy as I face the mirror. But nothing prepared me for the moment I recently encountered—a three-way mirror situation where I found myself asking, “Is this a shirt? Too long? A dress? Too short? A tunic? Is this stylish or just plain trashy?” In that moment, I truly felt my age.
Nonetheless, I liked the garment, whatever it was, and decided to purchase it. At the register, two young clerks exchanged glances when I asked, “What is this supposed to be?” Their silence spoke volumes. “Is it a shirt or a dress?” I pressed. “Oh, it’s a dress,” one finally replied. “But it’s really short,” I countered. One nodded earnestly, “Totally a dress. You could wear jeggings if you’re uncomfortable…but I wouldn’t.”
That’s when my age became evident to them. I might still party like I’m 25, but I draw the line at letting my backside hang out in public. “Of course I’m uncomfortable! If I bend over, everyone will see everything! I’ll just pretend it’s a shirt,” I confessed, “because I think it’s cute.”
Their silence was telling. “I’m old,” I admitted. “I’m 35. I have three kids at home.” The light bulb went on for them. “Wow, you look amazing for having three kids!” they exclaimed. “Thank you?” I replied, but then came the kicker: “Here’s your receipt, ma’am. Have a wonderful day!”
Ma’am. That one word hit me hard. Damn, I’m old.
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In summary, as I navigate the complex world of fashion at 35, I embrace my body and the changes it brings while still grappling with the occasional moments of self-doubt. The journey of self-acceptance continues, reminding me that age is just a number, even if it sometimes feels like a label.