PicoBlog

It's a pleasant afternoon at the bookstore when through the window I spot my stylish friend P as she heads into the boutique next door. I chase her like a puppy dog and we chat through the dressing room curtain as P test-drives new togs for a trip. One thing leads to another, and soon I find myself pulling on the very jeans P has worn into the store, and thinking, I need these.

It is a truly kind woman who waits pantless in a dressing room while you try on her clothes.

Just a few months before, I had begun to notice that wide-leg jeans had returned to fashion in a way we haven't seen since the late 70s. Jiminy Christmas, I thought. How has THIS been allowed to happen? I had only recently retired my last pair of mom jeans in favor of a slimmer silhouette. Now I need elephant bells, too? Can a crocheted halter top be far behind?

But wide-leg pants have been surging for a while. One can determine how long a trend has been in style by asking me when I first noticed it, then working backward nine months to a year. This formula can be useful when estimating whether to jump on board or wait things out. Alas, fashion trendspotting is more art than math. For three long years I held my breath and turned blue waiting for that godforsaken cold-shoulder shirt1 situation to fade. Mantras sustained me. Think navy cardigans, think navy cardigans, think navy cardigans.

It wouldn't have mattered how long that holey-sleeved nightmare hung on. I was a resolute Never Shiverer. But jeans? Jeans are a different matter.

Last season's jeans and eyeglass frames are a sure sign you've snagged your panties on a branch from yonder forest, so to speak. My natural inclination is to dress for comfort and camouflage. Still, the older I get, the more important it seems to have a few items that nod toward the modern world. My glasses are OK, but the jeans needed an adjustment.

This is why I find myself trying on Elegant P's pants, and not resisting when she calls sweetly to a salesperson, "Jen, would you grab my friend Karen here a pair of the Megs?"

Soon I'm standing before a full-length mirror, sizing myself up in the "Meg" jeans while Jen tosses me compliments like confetti. P, reunited with her pants, considers which sandals would work with my jeans. Then she says, "Why don't you give your shirt a little half-tuck?"

"Hmmn?" I ask

"Give it a little tuck," says P, pointing to the hem of the blouse I've tried on just for fun.

For the uninitiated, the half-tuck2, or French tuck, involves shoving all or part of the front of one's shirt tail into one's waistband and letting the rest hang free. When the half-tuck first arrived, I regarded it as homage to the existence of a waist without the girth-revealing commitment of a fully tucked top. Young women did the half-tuck. So did certain stylishly attuned men. The wasp-waisted did it, as did the fashion-loving, self-loving body-positivity crowd. "Yes!" they all seem to say. "Here is my glorious waist! Take that, Michael Phelps!"

I loved the exuberance of the move, but that was not for me. Like its full-tuck relative, the half-tuck drew attention to my middle, a part I'd put into witness protection back in the mid ’90s. I had long ago declared myself too eff-ate-tea for a tuck of any kind.

So I waited for the trend to pass.

But it did not pass.

It stayed.

The tuck stuck.

Which is how I find myself being gently urged now by Stylish P to give it a go.

So I try. Immediately, I become a toddler, clumsy and silly, trying to get dressed all by herself for the very first time. I manage to shove a hunk of fabric inside my waistband, where it bunches awkwardly. Now I am a drunk toddler. Now I am reminded of the time I got my dress caught up in the back of my pantyhose, like Rachel in the bridesmaid episode of "Friends."

P coaches and gestures. "Just ... grab that part and kinda … " she says. And I try again.

But the effort of looking fashionably effortless is so beyond me that P finally just takes hold of the hem of my shirt and starts pushing it into the top of my pants.

Thoughts swirl.

I will never be cool! (No kidding.)

and

Ach! My midriff rolls!

and then, finally

Hey! That looks … Not Terrible. Kind of cute. Should I wear a belt?

Thus do I drop a toe into 2024. Thus am I reminded, once again, that regardless of the state of one's body, clothes can be more than camo. Clothes can be jubilant. And pretty. And swaggering. And cool-girl. They can definitely be a sign that we are alive in the modern world, even if one is neither 25 nor has a Scarlett O'Hara waist. Nobody cares how old we are or the state of our stomachs, but they tend to light up if we look like we tried.

Left to my own devices, I inevitably shop by the Hippocratic method: First, do no harm. This tends to result in a closet filled with clothes that look the same and confidently declare, "There she goes, world! Off to the chiropractor!"

Fortunately, I have fashionista friends who still see glimmers of hope in the old gal. They are all younger than I, but when they coax me into better clothes, they feel like my big sisters — sisters who are not about to allow me to look like a dork if they can help it.

This also makes me feel optimistic. And loved.

People should not be judged by what they wear; that goes without saying. And at some point, if we're lucky, we will arrive at an age so indisputably advanced, and in a condition so determinedly infirm, that a rotating wardrobe of pastel jogging suits with Velcro closures might be the very best we can do. Circle of life.

But to the extent that our clothes let us know how we feel about ourselves, it’s probably wise to try some zingier options every now and then while we're still upright; to let loose and wear a hunk of now from time to time.

I’ve been trying harder these days to occasionally French-tuck myself into something that reminds me, in thickness or in svelte, what it’s like to feel free and open-minded. I love a lot of what zestier, younger brains come up with in art and style. I also admire those old ladies you see who are still having a blast in leather pants and snake bracelets.

So wrap up my jeans, Jen, and throw in that shirt with the puffy shoulders. Nope, I'm no longer 25 — or even 50. But I definitely want my clothes to say something hopeful about me. Starting with, “She's not dead yet.”

Notes
1. Voila: The Cold Shoulder.

2. Voila: The Half-Tuck.

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