A Chico's Kind of Day

I felt good today when I came home to my disaster of a house. I was uber productive at work finishing an enormous list and many letters to prepare for the big benefit auction. I spent all day wearing a fabulous outfit that included a stylish shirt that I haven’t been able to fit into for four years. We had dinner at a restaurant and Rachael was actually well behaved. Today was a complete score until Jeff got the mail.

There are very few moments in life that have made me feel like I was getting old: watching my baby become more and more of a person everyday, noticing the tiny lines forming under my eyes (namely due to the baby that is becoming of a person), and the new copy of the Chico’s catalog staring me in the face. What a way to ruin a good day.

Let me say, that I have nothing personally against Chico’s. They make decent, upscale clothing for upper middle class women. However, usually those women are at least 20 years my senior. At first I tried to remain in denial, maybe this catalog was for the woman who used to live here. She might have only been a few years older than me, but she was the type that would have been happy wearing Chico’s. I closed my eyes tightly as I turned the catalog over, and unfortunately, my name was printed in black on the white block.

How could all of those target marketers be so wrong? Just last week, I got two samples of Stage 4 Pampers, so they know I have a baby. I realize in-vitro is becoming the “in” thing to do, but I don’t think there are too many women putting in for early retirement, while changing stinky toddler diapers. It’s not as if I haven’t left a very hip paper trail for those advertisers. I subscribe to The Nation, BUST, and Bitch Magazine, and support youthful causes. Maybe it was the Martha Stewart Living gift subscription that my in-laws gave me for Hanukkah that warranted the attention of Chico’s, but to my defense, I only got interested in the domestic goddess after she became a martyred felon.

I flipped through the Chico’s catalog to make sure that I had not unfairly judged the clothing retailer, but I was dead on the money. I don’t know any woman under the age of 50 who would be caught dead in this gear. Actually, I don’t know any non-Caucasian, upper middle class, suburb mother whose children were going to be entering college next year, and has a husband who is warding off his midlife crisis by purchasing a hot car and getting hair plugs, who would be caught dead in these clothes. I may be living in the ‘burbs, but thankfully, I haven’t given into most of the suburb conventions including the vacuous cocktail parties and the white bread clothing.

Tonight when I get ready for bed, no matter how awesome my workout is, I know I’m going to spend an extra ten minutes examining my face in the mirror. I don’t mind getting older, but I hate living in a culture that continuously lowers the “over the hill” age for women. When I was in high school, women in their late 20s/early 30s were considered prime, but by the time I entered my mid-20s, I was the perfect age. Now that I’m in my early 30s, girls in their late teens and early 20s are being touted as most desirable. I guess as long as stupid men drive marketing, the situation will continue to get more pathetic. All I can do is hope that by the time my Rachael enters 5th grade, I won’t have to worry about 20-something dumbfucks in their tricked out Scions cruising her elementary school.

My aging obsession is touch and go. I’m not going to turn into one of those scary Frankenstein, plastic surgery broads who get everything tucked, sucked and lifted. However, I’m not completely opposed to a small surgical refresher right before my 20 year high school reunion. I will, most likely, wake up tomorrow feeling as young and fabulous as I did this morning. I will style my non-gray hair, apply moisturizing makeup to my youthful face, and wear something that makes me feel vibrant. Then I will do myself a favor by making a strong cup of coffee and toss the catalog in the trash, because tomorrow is not going to be a Chico’s kind of day.