Matters of taste

One of the many unfortunate physical changes that occurs as you get older is that your skin grows thinner. Last summer my Mom was telling me how easily her skin tears these days, and, I have to admit, even at my age I have noticed not-so-subtle changes in the texture of my skin. I think it is particularly cruel that this kind of thing should happen just when you seem to need a thicker skin - when your kids grow up. Most of my children have moved way beyond the stage in life where Mom is beautiful, wise and always right. All of them have moved beyond the stage where Mom knows anything about clothes, music or youtube. Even though I know they are probably right, I still forget sometimes.

I have (almost) finally stopped trying to buy any items of clothing for my daughters, with the possible exception of white sports socks. (I don't always get those right, but I have an 11 year old who will still wear just about any style for basketball practice. I know my days are numbered with her.) My older girls have been very kind to me for years. Countless times I have pulled something out of a shopping bag with a "Ta-da" flourish only to hear them demur, "Oh, Mom, that's really interesting." "OK, maybe I could try that." "That's really nice, but I'm not sure if it will fit; you know how ridiculous I am about how things fit." Later they try to slip them out the back door in opaque bags bound for a local charity so I might not notice. Nice girls.

It's not that I'm completely clueless about my fashion weaknesses. I admit I just don't notice the subtle differences between brands and cuts of jeans; I can never remember which backpocket designs are OK and which are anathema. It's one of my blind spots. And I know, too, that vintage finds that I think are fabulous, that make me exclaim, "Oh, I would definitely wear this if I were 20 again" will never interest my girls unless it happens to be October 31. I do understand a few things. But I thought I could still do an adequate job of choosing my own wardrobe. Apparently not.

One Sunday last month I arrived downstairs ready for church only to hear my fourteen year old say, "Mom, that outfit looks like it came from "What Not to Wear." Seeing she had hurt my tender fashion feelings she quickly backtracked with, "No, no! I meant what they choose for the woman to wear, not what she started out in," but I got the point. My eldest son arrived home from college for spring break a few weeks ago. He gave me a big, warm hug and then stepped back for an appraising look. "Mom, are you wearing your wampum around your neck?" he asked when he noticed the new necklace I had just bought to make a bold statement. Wampum was not the look I'd had in mind.

I take some comfort from the knowledge that I am not wandering all alone in the fashion wasteland of midlife. I was discussing skinny jeans with one of my age cohort a few months ago. I mentioned my girls had frowned disapprovingly when I casually brought them up in conversation. They shook their heads and murmured things I could not quite hear, but could not misunderstand. My friend confided that her daughters had gasped, "Mom, don't even think about it" when she eyed their Ugg boots with more than cursory interest.

I can still remember my own mother's fashion faux pas when I was young and cool, like her stiffly sprayed hair that was refreshed once a week at the salon. In spite of her best efforts to sleep carefully for the next six days it became flatter and more misshapen as the week wore on. You could pretty much tell which day each of her friends had her regular appointment by the state of their hives. That was 1972. I also remember her picking out "cute" things for me that I would not consider going to bed in, much less wearing to school. I remember the myriad ways I had of saying "Are you kidding?" so it sounded more like, "I think I have enough clothes to last me for the next three years, but thanks anyway." And I remember my relief when my mother eventually stopped buying me clothes, though I missed the moment of excitement I used to feel between the announcement, "I got you something great!" and the unveiling of the actual item.

So, I should not be surprised to find that I have reached the same stage in life. It was inevitable. I should not feel like a complete failure just because I will never get a job as a fashion consultant to anyone under thirty - really, for anyone at all. The wisdom which comes with age doesn't have much to do with taste, I guess. I should probably turn my energies to other pursuits, like growing a thicker skin.