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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.