Last weekend, I took my son and mother to the nearby outlet mall for a little back-to-school shopping - yes I know it’s ridiculous to think about school in the middle of the summer, welcome to Georgia.
My role began as chauffeur, banker and fashion consultant for my 15 year-old son. That was until I dared to question one of his fashion choices and was ceremoniously fired.
So I joined my mom, who was really just along for the ride, for bit of retail therapy. I wasn’t planning on buying anything. I mostly went into the store with her to put some space between the teen fashion plate and me.
But there were signs everywhere screaming at me, “40% off the entire store” and, in fine print, “including sale items.” It was just too much to ignore.
I saw a pair of pants and top that I liked. I tried it on and fell in love. I did a quick calculation in my head and decided that with the extra 40% off they were practically paying me.
I made my way to the cashier, handed her my credit card and smiled when she complimented my selection. I watched as she carefully folded and wrapped each item in tissue paper and placed them neatly in the bag.
As I walked out of the store, despite how flattering and incredibly comfortable the clothes were, I knew with that single purchase, that I had finally jumped the shark -- I was a Chico’s shopper.
And it wasn’t just any outfit. I bought a pair of elastic waist, stretch crepe black pants with a print tunic that covers the area I still blame on the C-section that brought young Mr. GQ into this world 15 years ago.
What could possibly be next? Buying shoes from Naturalizer? (Too late, I did that a few years ago. But honestly, they have really upped their game since my grandma shopped there for shoes to accommodate her bunions).
I know what you’re saying, “You’re young, just because you’re turning 51 doesn’t mean you have to shop in ‘those’ stores.”
You’re right. And I’d be lying if I told you that I loved everything in Chico’s - some of it actually scares me.
At the same time, when I turned 50 last year I was expecting to have some great epiphany. I expected to wake up with a newfound level of confidence. One that would allow me to shed the insecurities of my younger self. After all, wasn’t 50 the year that allowed you to stand up and tell the world, I don’t give a rats ass.
But it never happened. I never felt any different. It seemed I was still carrying around the same insecurities that I had when I was 20 and 30.
It wasn’t until I put on those elastic waist pants that I finally felt comfortable in more ways then one.
I tried on the outfit again when I got home. When I looked in the mirror I saw a confident woman staring back at me. The kind of woman who knew that she looked good.
The next day I wore my new ensemble to work.
On the way, I stopped at Starbuck’s for my grande, nonfat, latte with one Sweet'N Low.
As I scanned my Starbuck’s app to pay for my drink, the cute 20 something barista behind the counter smiled at me and said, “I love your top, that’s a really cute outfit.”
“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “I got it at Chico’s
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