Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

Apparently I have been stuck in fashion exile at the high school for too long, because I went into Washington DC today and saw that the world now wears knee-high boots. Not only are they wearing knee-high boots, but they are tucking their pants into their boots. As I pondered the impossibility of getting my calves into those boots, the realization that a layer of pants would also need to go in made me want to run back to the safety of the suburbs. These were not boots with room, these were boots made of “stretch leather” which would never stretch to fit me. Glad I never get a chance to notice how out of fashion I am, because then I would also feel how out of shape I am. And that would be bad, especially since I have not had a potato chip since my epiphany at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains more than a month ago.

I was temporarily interrupted from watching the booted ladies pass by my car as my daughter and I waited until it was time to try to crash a Bat Mitzvah party (explanation coming) as a woman in black pleather tights sauntered past. Not only did she have on pleather tights (yes I said it), but apparently when wearing this garment there is no need to have a shirt or topper to the tush. Yes, her shirt and sweater and scarf ensemble did not go beyond her hips and if you are not familiar with female anatomy, let me notify you that that left those parts of her body that she has in common with Sarah Palin covered by a thin layer of pleather. Did I mention that they were black and that she looked very good in them, if that’s your thing, of course. And I am big enough (in more ways than one) to admit that. But really, pleather tights? Who comes up with these ideas? Please, please, don’t let this fashion statement trickle down to Target because I don’t think the world needs more pleather-tighted women on the march.

My daughter and I are wimps, we chickened out on crashing the elegant Bat Mitzvah at the fancy hotel (even if it was a daytime affair and so not officially “fancy” according to my mother, the maven). We were going to hear the DJ who will be dj-ing at her much less plush party in two weeks, but we’ll have to go on the info we garnered from outside the room and from previous discussions and his picture. (Yes, my daughter had no second-thoughts on going for the young, but very hot male DJ, instead of the 30-something slightly overweight female DJ). And, no, Wolf Blitzer won’t be there for my daughter as he was for that girl. Oh well, life goes on.

Another insight from our day in DC: my daughter has no conception of what it means to find a parking spot, since she is a burbian. I parked down the block from the hotel and she had the nerve to look at the address and note that rather than parking in front of 4300 we were in front of 4400. I just looked at her, and ached for her knowing that she would never have a true sense of accomplishment at finding a good parking place. How could I have failed in not making her understand the geometry of parking?

From the party, we drove through the Saturday hordes in Georgetown and then onto the ever-present traffic in that part of Virginia which is not part of the “real” Virginia and is, in fact, communist, to take my daughter to a Bat Mitzvah party to which she was invited.

While she was there I went to the mall across the way (also in the not “real” part of Virginia) to see if I could find a magic dress that would make me look like I did twenty years ago. Alas, they had sold out. So I guess I’ll keep the dress I got last week and succumb to getting a modern-day girdle to suck in some of my stuff so that I could look almost ready for pleather.