In our last Goodwill clothes drop, I included an expensive jacket that I bought at a chi-chi 23rd Street boutique no more than four years ago. It was artfully frayed and patched in spots, with extra bohemian touches like charming artisan buttons. Yet when I recently put it on and looked in the mirror, the age of my face didn't match the age of the jacket.
It occurred to me that I am at the age where I could actually embarrass hipsters by wearing clothes too similar to their own.
I'm not sure when I stopped looking in the Juniors department for clothing. I'm not sure when I stopped feeling self-conscious about shopping at Coldwater Creek (well, actually, I still feel self-conscious about shopping at Coldwater Creek). It may have come on slowly but at this point, my taste in clothes have skewed so much toward the soft and elastic-waisted that even though I have long since thrown away my 90s-era velour tracksuits, if you offered me one today I might not turn it down (as long as there was nothing written fetchingly across the ass).
I know I'm not taking this aging thing well, but I think I'm beginning to dress the part.
P.S.: HOWEVER. You'll pry my Maximum Fun hoodie out of my COLD DEAD HANDS.