Desperate in DC

Breast Blossoms

P,

I've made an amazing discovery that initially brought much delight but has ended in, well, sheer horror.  Are you familiar with Breast Blossoms, the delightful little flower-shaped silicone stick-ons that keep a woman from revealing unsightly nipplage?  Probably unheard of in California, but women in the East do still try and keep their ta-tas from obviously revealing every time they feel a chill wind.  Uncovered the little petals at that fabulous lingerie store across the street and used them for the first time yesterday.

Quite naturally, I told a friend that I was keeping the twin sisters discretely unexposed without a bra and asked her to admire same.  She patted my hand and said that was nice for a woman still in her forties, but wasn't possible when one reached the 5th decade as all things on top moved closer to the middle.  Her revelation was so entirely shattering--as I looked down to notice I too could have used a little more support--that I haven't been able to fully focus since.

Have become entirely obsessed with the idea that my small stature, so to speak, hasn't protected me from the inevitable effects of gravity that occur on so many body parts with the passage of time.  Somehow I assumed all those buxom blonds would one day pay for that fabulous cleavage in a way I would never be forced to.  It's as if, dearest P, there may truly be no real justice in the universe. 

Please do convince me otherwise but first give me a moment to strap the little darlings back into their harness. Thankfully, youngest cherub will never know the horror of seeing her mother's sagging bustline, as the error was quickly rectified. She will simply think the blossoms are re-useable band-aids for her baby dolls.  Really a better and clearly much more elevated purpose, wouldn't you say, P?

C.

Pursuit of Beauty?

P,

Although my parenting philosophy may be somewhat narcissistic, I have taken another approach altogether with my beauty routine.  Don't know if I've mentioned T., my Russian hairdresser (will save A., the tortuous waxer for another day).  Although I desperately want her to believe I have a certain stylish cache, she spends most of the time telling me why my hair is a disaster and my aging self is troubling at best.  And I love it.

Just yesterday I mentioned that I wanted a new 'do.  After her initial disapproving look, she mentioned that I could look "somewhat" younger if I cut my hair shorter.  She made certain to mention that husbands don't like short hair and I was risking my marriage.  Of course, for the trendiest style, I was willing to do it.  I do love the short cut, but the honeymoon will inevitably end with my own first wash and style.  T is clearly unaware of hair issues that arise after the visit--when it can't be tugged into submission by a bossy Euro minx.  It's as if I don't exist when I leave her shop.  And I love it.

The stunning piece de resistance--the pinnacle of tortuous treatment--occurred when I inquired about some shampoo for hubby.  T returned with a bottle of men's shampoo--for gray hair.  Now, I ask you, dearest P, how did she know I was married to a man with more than a sprinkling of salt and pepper?  I would like to say she knows him, but she doesn't.  P, she simply assumed, based on MY appearance, that hubby was a man of a certain age.  I'd like to think I simply look expensive and have the carriage of a woman who requires one of those much older men to support my habits.  However, as I found T's shop in a pocket of Bethesda not known for its high end retail, she knows it's just not true.  Her steady gaze said it all.  I took the shampoo.  Now hubby is forced to give up all vanity in order to cater to the relationship I have with T.  And I love it.

Faithfully,

C.   

Re: Pursuit of Beauty

Dear C,

When it comes to the increasingly elusive pursuit of beauty, there is only one race I trust, and that's the French. Only they seem to treat one with the requisite frostiness and condescension that suggests I need them far more than they need me.  First, there is the silent but distinctly censorious glance at my outfit as I walk through the door. (In five years attending the same salon, I have never once left without the unsettling feeling that I got it all wrong). Then the colorist appraises my roots,  with the kind of distaste othe people reserve for picking up rats by their tails. And finally, the stylist examines me from head to toe for what actually is an eternity, before proceeding to snip my hair in precisely two places and declaring 'c'est fini!' with the finality of Van Gogh completing his last picture before cutting off his ear.  Frankly, I'm not sure I can tell the difference as I glance in the mirror before  leaving the salong, but  I must be getting something for  my 250 bucks, right?

Faithfully,

P.

Compliments of the Store

Dear C,

So there I was, slipping on a swimsuit in the changing room of our favorite teeny-bopper store when I hear an ominous knock on the door. 'We offer these for our customer's convenience,'  said the sales assistant, dangling a quaint little paper package over the doorframe. Imagine my blushes dear C, when I opened the bag to find  it contained a nifty paper thong - presumably to compensate for my own inadvertent (or otherwise) lack of underwear. Naturally, my mortification was reserved not for the assistant's assumption that I was going commando, but rather for the bleak fact of the matter, which is that I wasn't. Once again, the material, spiritual and most depressingly the age gulf between me and Paris Hilton opened before me, and I stared into the abyss. Who knew that wearing panties could be a fashion faux pas? As a result of this sobering experience, I am resolved, dear C, to make the best of the brief time left for me on this earth, which is why I ask you to join me now in investing in a little-known manufacturer of paper underwear, to be known under new management by the brand name 'Whoops, I forgot my underpants!'. Together, I think we could finally make that fortune.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Compliments of the Store

P,

I've now had the occasion to sample the undergarment about which you speak.  I thought I had safely ensconsed myself in the only place where I may find peace in my kingdom-the backyard shed.  Unfortunately hubby was in the mood for gardening and discovered, to his surprise, a fully naked wife (it all seemed necessary at the time) in paper underwear.  Now I'd like to say he was delighted at the scene and our marriage will be long-lasting because his darling wife plans these sorts of hijinks to keep things fresh.  In truth, he stood open-mouthed for a moment, grabbed the rake and closed the door behind him.  He hasn't mentioned it since.  I assume there has been some counseling time with our pastor and perhaps a prayer said in my name.  I must tell you, dearest P, I'm eternally grateful it wasn't the cherubs looking for their Elmo sprinkler.  Perhaps it makes good sense to use real models in the product marketing? 

Faithfully,

C.

Call Me Ma'am

Dear C,

Following last week's reprimand from my six year old about the inappropriate nature of my clothing (see previous correspondence), I have resolved to turn over a new fashion leaf and dress in a manner more befitting my age and station in life. With this in mind, dear C, what better role model could there be than the future Queen of England, HRH Camilla Parker-Bowles-Windsor? Like her new mother-in-law, the current Queen, this venerable lady could never in a million years be accused of being a slave to fashion. Not for her Princess Diana's sometimes unfortunate fashion statements: brightly-colored jackets with the sleeves rolled up; Mickey Mouse sweatshirts; leopard skin boots. Tempting as these accoutrement might have looked in the hey day of Phil Collins and Wham, these days, they are more likely evince a wince of pain on the part of people like myself, who were known to have feathered their hair during the wilder portions of their youth. Far more appropriate, surely, is the solid, sturdy uniform of tweeds and brogues; the low heels, square toes and helmet of hair favored by Liz and Camilla, who wouldn't be seen dead toting a Corgi in their Louis Vuitton (what else are servants for?), and who quite properly prefer to be seen as mutton dressed as mutton. Such outfits display not so much a disregard for fashion as a superiority to it, along with the self-assurance that comes from knowing one is most definitely loved for one's character, not one's looks (although the oldballandchain would no doubt point out that for some of us this has always been the case). So it's out with the old, in with the old, and let the chips fall where they may. Just so long as they make low-rider tweeds.

God Save the Queen!

P.

 

Re: Call Me Ma'am

Dearest P,

As my role model in all things fashionable, I am distressed by your new found love of, dare I say it, middle-age.  Certainly, we may more than occasionally cross the line and enter what I like to call "cringe" territory, you know, the times when you see a woman of a certain age trying desperately to recapture her youth (or a younger lover).  But what about the "Desperate Housewives" fantasy we harbor of how we may actually look like Terri Hatcher in capris and a tube top?  I just think, dear P, that reality is not something into which we should wade too deeply. I beg you, P, not to leave me stranded as "trollop on the block."  I will not panic yet, as although I know you have good intentions, we sometimes just can't help ourselves.  I'm sure there's a twelve step program around for women like us, but I'll save the cure for a few years so that I may pass my clothing down to my then teenaged daughters.  In the end, I am a practical woman.

Faithfully,

C. 

The Trouble with Retail

P,

I got it in my head to run over to Saks today in search of that one special item--the hot pink camisole, the beige (but not brown) belt or even the just right black shoes--which will make our anniversary weekend complete.  Aside from the fact that it is evident husband has little to do with what makes the weekend complete, I was unhappily surprised to discover how ill-prepared I was for the salesgirl encounter.  I aspire to be a Saks and Neiman shopper, but certain realities (child 1, 2, 3 and 4) have held back my instinctive need to satisfy most of these primal urges.  Today, throwing caution to the wind, I believed I was somehow worthy.  For about five seconds.  I was greeted coolly--was it my Old Navy wardrobe or Banana Republic coat that did me in?  I persevered and demanded to be shown something in the proper size.  Noticed immediately that copping an attitude helped.  Soon I was reviewing the whole spring collection.  Exhausted but triumphant I purchased only one t-shirt.  Moved quickly to the exit as I felt disdain dripping from the fingertips of the clerk.  Perhaps shopgirls are superior, my dearest P, but I was, after all, the one who had the hour free to peruse at 3pm.

Faithfully,

C.

Re: The Trouble With Retail

C,

How is it that the sales clerks at Saks can tell exactly when your underwear comes from Target, and your shoes from DSW? Do they have X-ray vision, or could it be (horrors!) that they shop there themselves? My current theory is that it is the shoes, sunglasses and esp. the purse that give you away. If you're not carrying the latest Burberry Prorsum, you might as well be the bag lady from outside the Metro station. Don't they realize you can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on raising your children in this city, and still have nothing to show in the way of seasonal accessories or glamorous vacations? Which explains why I would love to shop at these places, were it not for the fact that I simply have nothing to wear.....

Faithfully,

P.