It was time for some retail therapy. The morning had been your typical Monday with fires popping up left and right and us with neither the time nor the energy to put them out. We were both grumpier than usual, and by the time lunch rolled around, we knew we needed to get the heck outta Dodge.
Allyson, my fashionable coworker and fabulous friend, suggested a trip to a trendy boutique just down the street from us. “They’re having a sale,” she urged. “It’ll be great!”
Considering the morning we’d had so far, I readily agreed to this little adventure. Truth was, I wanted to buy something cute for myself and restore that always great weekend feeling that had been stolen away, per usual, late Sunday afternoon…
The words “trendy boutique” should have been my first hint that maybe this shop wasn’t for me. Not surprisingly, my nerd senses started tingling the moment we walked through that door and into the land of sheer pastels and flowing maxi dresses and strange creatures called bandeaus. Everything inside me screamed, “Get out!” And the snooty looks on the employees and patrons faces should have sent me running.
But y’all, shopping at thirty isn’t easy. You’re caught in some sort of no-man’s land between the youthful, trendiness of your twenties and the more mature, chic wardrobe of your thirties. You haven’t quite decided that you want to give up things like unicorn tank tops and skinny jeans and sparkly Toms. Or at least, I haven’t.
This boutique seemed as good a place as any to search for that elusive sort of clothing that was both youthful and chic, both mature and trendy, and to heck with snobby women who think they possess some secret membership to the “I’m cool” club; in true Pretty Woman fashion, I was going to show them that this nerd had money to spend and bandeaus to buy!
A bandeau, as I have learned, is an undergarment meant to be worn with the sheer fabrics that are apparently all the rage these days. Nearly every article of clothing I touched was some form of see-through; laces and tulles and soft, thin cottons crowded the racks and screamed, “You could never pull me off!” at the top of their little fabric lungs.
After being run off several times by pushy, confident twenty year-olds who seemed to think I was either invisible or not worth common courtesy, I finally settled in at a rack that seemed more my style. Within minutes, I’d gathered three adorable tanks that were more-or-less of a solid fabric and (mostly) age appropriate. Never mind that all three were probably meant to be worn as dresses…
Triumphantly, I presented my tanks, along with some jewelry selections, to the cashier. She eyed me, my frizzy hair, and my less-than-fashionable work outfit, doubtfully, then rang me up with a little smirk. The nerd inside me sang as I imagined how cute I would be in my new tank
dresses tops and trendy little earrings.
When Allyson and I arrived back at work, I showed off my purchases to some of my other co-workers, all young women in their twenties. They oohed and aahed appropriately, and I beamed when I reached my favorite tank, the blue one with white dragonflies on it.
Ashley, one of the trendiest women in our office, sweetly interrupted my fashion show. “Uh, Katie, isn’t that a romper?”
A romper?! Wait, isn’t that something a toddler wears?
Shocked, I grasped around at the bottom of the garment and realized that it was, in fact, a one-piece, an adult onesie, if you will. In my quest to recapture just a bit of my youth, I had gone back way too far. I looked up at my friends and coworkers in horror and screeched, “I accidentally bought a romper!!”
The joke around the office now is that I should at least try it on, but I know better. Bandeaus and rompers and sheer clothing aren’t for me; it’s time to turn in the sparkly shoes and unicorn tanks. Adulthood, unceremoniously, has arrived.
|The offending garment|