|This is not me. I look much younger.|
I think it is well established that I have flittered through my chickie-babe days and am now solidly wedged into the henny-wench phase. I remember when I was MUCH younger, figuring that by the time I hit this age I'd be happily wearing flowered muu-muus and comfort-pants.
Au contraire, mon petit cabbage! I would rather die than wear anything with expandable waist gussets. And should the word "sensible" be paired with anything in my closet, I shall torch the lot.
I don't really know why I feel this way. I am a stay at home mom (who is never at home.) You'd think I'd be okay with comfort clothes. But I'm not. I have to get dressed in well cut clothing that evokes a bit of the je ne sais quoi, or I don't function well. I must put on a dab of eyeliner and a bit of mascara (adjectives which my son would say were euphemisms for "trough" and "tank") before I leave the house, or I don't feel whole.
I'm sure it has nothing to do with vanity. Or insecurity. I mean, I'm not one of those women who runs around wearing skin-tight jeans and itty-bitty-shirts, and streaky colors temp-dyed into my hair in an attempt to channel youth. It is probably just the professionalism I became accustomed to when I was a marketing rep. Or a trade-show presenter. Or a House of Pancakes waitress. I am probably so used to looking my brighty-best that I simply can't do the slob-down. It's not an age thing. It's a professionalism thing. I'm sure that's it.
Well *sigh* I guess it's just my curse then. And who am I to fight it? One must follow one's nature–that's what really wise people who know an awful lot and whose philosophies match mine always say. One does one's best to bear one's burdens. Especially when one's burdens are found at places with names like "anthropologie," and stuff.
Soldier on, my well-dressed fellow henny-wenches! Soldier on!