Sunday Newscape Magazine

I am not sure exactly when it happened. Most of life’s transitions are like that. One reality gradually turns into another the way ice cream gradually turns into cellulite. Pinpointing the exact moment of transformation can be tricky. Often it can only be recognized in retrospect. Was there a precise moment, for example, when you fell in love? Or fell out of love?

So when, I’ve been wondering recently, did I fall out of fashion?

It’s not like I was ever a true fashionista – one of those people who look like a million bucks just stumbling out of bed. I’ve never been a woman on a first-name basis with good taste. I used to wear spandex and leg warmers, for goodness sake. I like to think, though, that good taste and I were once at least acquainted with each other.

Yet somehow, without even realizing it, I have morphed into a fashion frump. I’m far more interested in wearing comfortable clothing - high-waisted “mom” jeans, T-shirts and sneakers - than in being fashion forward. I just can’t be bothered anymore with being stylish.

And that is making me feel old. In fact, I’m starting to remind myself of Sophia, the perpetually cranky character played by the late, great Estelle Getty on that classic TV show, “The Golden Girls.”

“She’s about 20 years too old for that outfit,” I heard myself snipe the other day in sour Sophia style about a woman my age who was wearing a mini-skirt. Before long, clunky, orthopedic shoes will undoubtedly be more appealing to me than high heels. Polyester dresses with forgiving elastic waists are surely in my future. I’ll soon be so far out of the game that being a fashion victim would be a step up.

Something, I realized, has to be done.

I have a friend with a finely calibrated fashion sense who wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of mom jeans. Even after having four children, she manages to always look stylish and put-together in her size 6 designer jeans. I hate the woman. But I figured she could help me fix my style shortcomings. So I invited her over recently. Then I started pulling some very fashionable ensembles out of my closest, outfits I hadn’t worn for awhile. These outfits have been with me since those halcyon days when good taste and I would at least nod when we saw each other on the street.

I used the word ensembles to describe these outfits to my annoyingly fashionable friend. This made me sound hip and trendy. And I looked hip and trendy when I tried on my 1980s-era outfits. At least I thought I did. My friend, however, curled her lip.

“Uh, how long have you had these clothes?” she asked in the same tone one would use when inquiring about distasteful failures in personal hygiene.

“For about 20 years,” I said, hearing a defensiveness in my voice. “But they’re really high-quality clothes, and they’re timeless.”

“No, they’re not!” she snapped. “They’ve got shoulder pads, for Pete’s sake! You need to buy some new clothes.”

Like I said, I hate the woman. She clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m going to start wearing those chic ensembles at the first opportunity. And I’m going to do a little more exploring in my closet. I’ve probably got some leg warmers in there somewhere.

© Jackie Papandrew 2008, All Rights Reserved