The Shape of a Woman

Magnify

Over the last five years or so, I became a woman who shops like a man. I have a list, I go into a store, make a purchase (or not), and leave. No more endless comparison shopping, no more monitoring markdowns and clearance racks, no more browsing just to see what’s out there, and far fewer clothing purchases.

While certainly one of the reasons my habits have changed is a desire to simplify my life and eliminate excess and clutter in my home, a secondary reason is that in middle age, clothes fail me.

I remember the passion I had for clothing in my 20s, the way a new outfit or item would spark sheer delight. There was a time when I loved picking out what to wear in the morning, what to add to my wardrobe each season, what to buy to “complete” a look.

But now clothes no longer have any magical powers for me. I don’t put them on and feel beautiful or romantic or sharp or professional or sexy. When I step into my closet or open a drawer, I don’t see things I can’t wait to wear, I just see acceptable choices. Somewhere along the line, clothing became largely functional and not fun at all.

Part of the reason for that shift in attitude is that my body has changed so much in recent years. It’s fuller and yet less curvy, softer and yet somehow more square.

After living most of my life with one kind of body, I’m still shocked to encounter this other one in the mirror. In my mind’s eye, I see my old self. Each time I step into a dressing room with an armful of clothes, I get a reality check. Who is this woman? And how do I dress her?

Sure I know what my style is but I’m not sure I can carry it off anymore. What I’m attracted to and what flatters my shape and looks appropriate are different things now. So I tend to stick with basic choices, practical considerations, and no longer experience the high of putting something on and feeling really, really good in it.

It would be easy to say this is simply a middle-aged woman’s dilemma, but it’s not. Yesterday I honored my 11-year-old daughter’s request to go to the mall. She had a wad of her own money in her pocket and a shopping list that included hair clips and shirts to wear with jeans.

The first few stores we checked didn’t have anything she even wanted to try on. Then, much to our surprise, a store that normally was a wash for us had a multitude of things that appealed to her. We loaded up our arms with selections and were all smiles as we headed to the dressing room.

Disappointment followed us. Some of the cute shirts had seams in strange places. Others were too tight under the arms. Some just looked weird. Then came two sweaters, the same style in different colors. My daughter pulled the first one over her head and I thought “Bingo! This is it! That looks FABULOUS!”

I was about to break into applause when I saw her face reflected in the mirror. Her expression was confused, unhappy, uncertain.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“This is NOT going to work,” she said.

And I looked at her reflection again and didn’t understand what her issue was. The apple green color of the sweater looked gorgeous with her platinum blonde hair, the sweater sat solidly on her shoulders and was neither binding nor loose around her arms, the V-neck was perfectly proportioned, and the sweater rode but did not cling to her curves in a long slim line to her hips.

And that’s when it hit me: my daughter did not want anything riding her curves down through her hips. “What is it about this that you don’t like?” I asked her, curious to see if I was right.

“This,” she said, “is the type of thing a showoff would wear. This is not appropriate. It is not me.”

I resisted the temptation to tell my daughter how beautiful she looked in that sweater, how it wasn’t revealing or a “show off” piece. I knew I shouldn’t push her to accept a look she wasn’t ready for. The real issue for her was the one I kept encountering in dressing rooms: the reality of a changing body.

Just as I was not ready to deal with my disappearing waist and blocky figure and the fact that I’m just a lot older than I feel, she was not ready to see herself as a young woman with curves, as someone a boy might notice and find attractive. Her body was taking her to a place her mind hadn’t yet ventured into. She was not ready to embrace the power and potential of her growing beauty and womanhood, and I am still adjusting to the fading of my own beauty, my age, and the impact physical changes have on my sense of self.

So after two hours, the two of us left the mall without buying any clothes, holding only a tiny bag containing pastel hair clips and blue nail polish—two girls in the process of making peace with their biology and their destinies, two girls working to be comfortable in their own skins.

Veronica McCabe Deschambault has worked as a public relations consultant, newspaper journalist, editor, ghostwriter, tech writer and blogger. A budding artist, creative spirit and fan of social media, she is networked with kindred souls across the globe. You can learn more about her and her work at veronicadeschambault.com.