Shopping When You’re Ancient (AKA Pushing 30)

In Which I Almost Bought A Sweater From Ann Taylor

I recently went to the mall to buy a work-appropriate sweater, a seemingly simple task that should not have resulted in an existential crisis. I wanted something thin and soft, that wouldn’t show cleavage and didn’t cost seventeen thousand dollars. The mall seemed like an appropriate place to buy such a commonplace item, or so I thought. What followed was a harrowing incident that altered my perception of what I had become.

First, I stopped in Forever 21 on a tip from a friend who swears they have decently priced work clothes. I left quickly, a little frightened that denim bra tops were a thing that kids are doing these days. Then I went to Express, which has remained my standby for such things. After having a salesperson try to tell me that a button-down shirt with leopard print inside the collar was fine for a job interview, I left here discouraged as well. I tried Gap, which has somehow become a frightening wasteland of sales racks, J. Crew where nothing fit me, and even Banana Republic and White House/Black Market, where I didn’t find anything, not that I could afford it anyway. I had some success when I cautiously ventured into Dillard’s (Do people shop at department stores? Is that uncool?), but I was just not willing to fork over $80 for the one sweater I kind of liked. Defeated, I ambled around until I was lured to a store by mannequins in tasteful, brightly colored clothes and prices I could tolerate. I took two steps towards the entrance before I looked up in horror and found I was in front of Ann Taylor. Where my mom shops.

I debated going in. What would that say about me—am I OLD now? But I needed a damn sweater; I had no choice. I pulled my jacket up to obscure my face and stole inside, hoping fate would be kind and I would not be recognized while shopping in a mom store.

I’ve never been the kind of girl who’s particularly good at dressing herself, but I only recently realized just how much of an advantage it is to have youth on your side. I specifically felt this the day I walked into Urban Outfitters and saw that high-waisted mom jeans were cool again; it’s like you are specifically making the statement, “I’m putting the least flattering clothing possible on my body and I’m still going to look good.” When I was younger, I could throw on whatever and look fine, but if I put those shorts on now, I would be mistaken for an actual mom. I can’t go in there anymore. I’m too old and I just don’t understand. Other stores started to slip away from me as well, mostly the places I could actually afford: The BP section of Nordstrom, cheap hoodies from Hollister, Buffalo Exchange.

It’s a sad day when you realize you can no longer wear certain things or styles (I don’t think “Forever 21” was meant literally). Sure there are some people who can say f*ck it and pull off trendy clothes forever, but I am not one of those lucky souls. Though I enjoy shopping for things to wear on a night out, the unfortunate reality now is that I have far more occasion to wear cardigans than crop tops. It doesn’t help that, while I am still relatively young, my body has begun to soften with time, and I have to consider how much people want to see. “Does this look good on me?” has become “Am I too old for this?”

What I look for now is things that will last me a while: classics and quality—though preferably not so high-quality that I have to dry clean them (this comic explains how I feel about that). I wear a lot of black, something I swore I’d never do when I was younger, shun shorts, and am probably boring in other ways as well. I feel like I am past fun and flirty, and am attempting sophistication instead.

But going into a store where my mom shops is a different kind of aging. Not that my mom isn’t a fashionable lady (Hi Mom! You’re great!), and she has given me fabulous clothes that were “too young” for her, a concept I thought absurd at the time. There’s nothing inherently wrong with Ann Taylor, but going into a store where everything is “sensible” and nothing is even attempting to be “trendy”—even if I can’t wear it—is admitting defeat. It’s admitting I’m old. And I’m not quite ready to do that yet; I’m stuck in an in-between.

In the end, I didn’t find the sweater of my dreams at Ann Taylor either, but my self-perception was still shaken. I may have to do more boring adult things now that I’m pushing 30, but I still never really feel like a grown up. In fact, I would really like it if someone could start a new chain that sells moderately priced, high-quality business-casual together with sexy-evening attire to solve my quandary. In the meantime, I’ll be explaining to anyone who stares that after my unnerving trip to the mall, I decided to follow Nora Ephron’s sage advice: “If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don’t take it off until you’re thirty-four.”

I have created the following Venn Diagram to summarize my point. Please keep in mind I am poor and this does not take into account important factors like “Does not destroy entire forests to make one sock” or “Clothing not made with the tears of small children.”