Imagine, if you will, a woman of a certain age and the body issues that normally accompany that age. She is not fat, but neither is she thin. Her flesh doesn’t wobble mercilessly, but neither is it taut. Her breasts have grown over the years, and if she had had in high school, what she has now, she would have been very popular indeed. Her belly, unfortunately, has tried to keep up with the breasts.
Now imagine that this is a woman for whom fashion has always been a hobby. She segued gracefully from Seventeen to Glamour to Vogue to, now, More. She has always known what is in and what is not. As often as she could, she wore what was in. Not because she needed to, but because it was fun, kicky, and sometimes her life was such that dressing in the morning was the best part of the day.
Now think of the current fashions and picture this woman in them. There are the jeans that come to her naval, and the wide belt that accompanies them, which she has the choice of wearing pulled up and resting on her belly or, a la the local plumber, under her belly. See her in those cute little sweaters, the ones that tie at the midriff. They’re worn with a longish top underneath, so that the sweater defines both the breasts and the belly.
This is a woman who is now locked out of the fashion candy store. She can look, she can admire, but she can never, unless she wants to become a Fashion Don’t herself, enter. Feel sorry for this woman. Pity her. And for those of you who are blithely wearing those cute little sweaters and low rise jeans, beware. For she was once one of you. And as she has gone, so may you.
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