It’s official. I’m torching the mom jeans and sensible clogs, trading in my solids for Pucci-inspired prints, coloring my hair and hitting the road with My Morning Jacket (well, hitting the carpool line in my minivan, with My Morning Jacket at volume 40). What has inspired this midlife identity meltdown? My much-loved mojo is MIA, and I want it back.
It all started with a birthday party. My cousin was turning 50. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t even say it aloud without breaking into a peri-menopausal sweat. Just a few years ago, 50 was a distant land that others visited; it sounded so old, so foreign, so AARP. Then suddenly, WHAMMO! It’s breathing down my neck, no matter how fast I run.
So Cousin Marge the jewelry designer was trumpeting the arrival of her 50th year, kicking and screaming, with a girls’ throwdown in Manhattan, a family-only sleepover at Cousin Mary’s West Side swankienda (she’s single, well-heeled, successful, driven and gorgeous – want to slap her, don’t you?) Needless to say, I packed in black, from my underpants and bra to the raincoat and shirt I wore on the train from Philadelphia, even my purse and shoes. This provincial soccer mom was going to New York disguised as a Sicilian widow.
The slumber party kicked off with a mid-afternoon fashion show. Cousin Marge showed off some supremely chic trinkets she’d bought at some fabulous online boutique; Cousin Mary modeled a pair of boots that could have paid our mortgage for a couple of months; and Cousin Carol, who is 46 and has three boys, just stood around, all five feet, nine inches of her, looking incredibly young, blonde and glamorous in her biker boots from Nordstrom. It was downhill from there. A glass of wine, and we were off to Bloomingdale’s, where the blue jeans cost more than a plane ticket to Los Angeles, and all the clothes are made for waifs and wraiths, not for women with curves and boobs and short waists. They pestered me to try things on (forget the price tag! try it on for fun!), but I was unmoved. The tops were too sheer, the sweaters too tight, the shoes too high, and the pants – well, let’s just say that they were low-cut enough for my belly to spill over the edge, like laundry on a clothesline.
At some point, I looked at them and said, “What I really need is a pair of loafers.” Who knew that was such a conversation stopper? You’d have thought I’d just farted in front of the Queen. After some knowing glances and an awkward pause, Cousin Carol patted me on the arm, eyeballed my Gap jeans, and said in a low voice, “Honey, you’ve just lost your mojo. We can take care of that.” Cousin Marge nodded, “You’re in mom mode, sweetie. It’ll change. Don’t worry.”
Wait a minute, I thought. They’re moms, too. But Cousin Marge looks 35, not 50, Cousin Mary has no kids to chase after and a wardrobe worth killing for, and Cousin Carol, well, I’m convinced she’s has a sinister self-portrait hidden in the attic of her Boston home. Somehow they have all persuaded their mojo to hang around, while mine has hung me out to dry. Power, charisma, sex appeal, spells, personal magnetism – according to dictionary.com, these are the definitions of mojo. And apparently, I’m all out of it. Next time I’m at Target, I’ll see if they have any in stock.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Who Stole My Mojo?
Labels:
birthday,
fashion,
menopause,
midlife,
mojo,
Pucci,
sex appeal,
shopping,
soccer mom
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5 comments:
Darling! Ballerina flats, at least! And two secrets of the frugalista: H & M, and--shhh--NewportNews.com. I swear. Mix it in with your other stuff and no-one will be the wiser.
But I have a feeling this wasn't really about the wardrobe, was it?
No, so not about the wardrobe. How well you know me...but having mom jeans did NOT help, particularly in this painfully thing, attractive and very hip crowd. It's okay. I'm the one with a sense of humor :-)
I feel your pain. I bought my first pair of Lucky jeans a few weeks ago - maybe not NYC cool, but cooler than the gap/Levi collection I've got going in my closet...
I thought my twice-monthly wine splurge with girlfriends was my "ode to youth" - but we can be stylish too whilst slugging down the vino!! Mom jeans have no place in the mojo world for sure....as soon as you've found yours pass on your tips so I can go look for mine too.
Once again I finish reading something you've written with a giggle...:-)
Word of cautionl - my nine year old will look at me in my jeans and say "uh, mom? Plumber pants......"
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