Low-waisted pants are a result of recessive jeans

 At 54, I am still searching for my signature fashion style. It was t-shirts and jeans for most of my life. Real outside-the-box, cutting edge stuff. Basic black EVERYTHING. The low-waisted trouser era completely traumatized me. I didn't sit down or bend over for three years. I developed a deep-seated curtsy that served me in picking up items from the floor. Tunic shirts were a welcomed addition to my wardrobe. Twin sets made a reappearance from the 1940s into my closet like Draco's canary next to my new friend, the cardigan. Palazzo pants and rompers wandered in. Turns out my fashion style is long, loose, lounge-wear.

Social media began sending me ads catered to my clothing preferences.

I made a purchase and, a week later, came bounding out of my bedroom.

"Whatta ya think?" I said, spinning around. I could crouch the living tiger out of this outfit.

Stunned, my husband stared at me, speechless.

"Interesting," he said slowly, "Are you happy with it?"

"Well," I admitted, "it's a little more blue than I anticipated. More Cookie Monster than Grover. And more wrinkly than the no-wrinkle promise stated in the ad." I smoothed the fabric gently like a disgruntled Shar Pei.

"Well, you really nailed the I worked on the transcontinental railroad look," Brad assured me before kissing me good-bye and leaving for the day. I took a picture to send to Sydney and then changed immediately. At lunch, my friends were treated to the pictorial fashion show and about died laughing. "You could be in the cast of Aladdin," they howled. Oh dear.

But you know what they say. When you get kicked in the face by the fashion horse, you have to get off your ass and try again.

My flawless friend Michelle had really been pushing patterns. "They're very forgiving, Amy," she encouraged. What fashion faux pas had I committed that warranted an apology, I wondered. Nevertheless, I bought another social media produced product from another unknown origin. "I can't believe the price," I'd told Brad. Then it arrived. My apologies to the third world women and children who'd manufactured this ill-fitting Halloween costume that I'd ordered. It swept behind me dramatically as I faked the confidence that I would need to survive the day in it. The cheap patterned pants encased my thighs like a reduced-priced rubber. My pale, sickly flesh flashed through the stretched out, straining strings of fabric. My legs looked like a scored ham. "From a distance, you looked magnificent," my friend, Julia told me. Thanks.

The terms dictating my fashion style needed an update:  Long, loose, LOCAL lounge-wear. 

Or maybe it was time to go back to jeans and t-shirts. Nothing fancy for me. I mean, seriously, I'm more Weather Tech than red carpet. I just need to hold up against the elements. Wind. Rain. Rust. And wear. Maybe I need to resist the need to be appreciated and, instead, just try to resist depreciating.