Somewhere out there, someone is buying me a Christmas present, and it is probably clothes.
They will probably fit. I have been the same size my whole life. But will these clothes be me?
You know what I mean. Will they be my colors? Will they make a statement? Will they say something about me? Will they define me, my age, my lifestyle, my generation? Will they show my personal flair, my imagination, my good taste?
Did the gift-giver see them on the department store rack and say, "My god, this is Susan. Can't you just see her in this?"
Probably not.
Probably they were hanging in the store window when my husband walked by.
Some hip young woman from the display department who has the most eclectic closet in the city pulled together this sensible combination of sweater, trousers, turtleneck and socks, and that's what I'm getting for Christmas.
And they probably won't be me. Not that I'd know it. I am having an identity crisis -- clothes-wise. I stand in front of my closet each morning and say not, "I don't have a thing to wear," but instead, "Who am I?"
Am I the busy mom in Keds, jeans and a clean, maybe kind of pretty, sweat shirt? Or am I the confident professional in a Jones New York suit?
Am I the preppy coed in corduroy shorts, tights, penny loafers and a hand-knit sweater? Or am I the PTA mom in blazer and Glen-plaid pleated skirt?
Am I the aging hippie in Birkenstocks and a droopy, drop-waist, washed denim dress? Or am I a secret vixen from Victoria's Secret?
Who am I? And do I want to be dry-clean only?
I am sure this seems very silly to you. But when you are caught in that awkward age between devoted-mother-of-toddlers and the-kids-are-in-school-and-so-it's-back-to-work; when you are not as young as you wish you were but not as old as you soon will be; when you still want to be attractive to men other than your husband but not so attractive that you might have to do something about it, you are caught in a fashion dead zone.
"At a certain age it is Madonna. At a certain age it is Mammy Yocum," says my friend Vida Roberts, who covers fashion for The Baltimore Sun.
"Don't take it too seriously," she advises. "Pretty soon, the moths will get it, and you can start over."
But I can't wear a slip dress with a tiny T-shirt underneath and I am not ready for elastic waistbands in my pants and I am not sure where that leaves me.
As the song says: "Combat boots to the left of me, leggings to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with hue."
I need a personal shopper from Nordstrom, and all I've got are a couple of kids. My husband rarely says more than, "Nice, honey," when I ask his opinion. He bought me a one-size-fits-all bathrobe made by the Champion sporting goods company for Valentine's Day. Why would I trust him?
So I have been relying on my 8-year-old daughter, who says things like, "Nice, but sort of boring. Can you wear something with beads?" and my 10-year-old son, who says things like, "Whoa, mom. Are you, like, trying to be young or what?"
I am not alone in this. My friend Catherine models her new dresses for her children, and they have full veto authority. Are we pathetic or what?
Fashion raises so many questions about myself that I can't seem to answer.
Do I wear my skirts mid-calf in a dignified approach to middle age? Or do I wear them above the knee and show off the only part of my body I don't hate?
Do I get my hair cut yet again and start looking more and more like my old high school gym teacher? Or do I wear it in a blonde-streaked page boy with a black velvet head band and feel ready for sorority rush weekend?
You know you are trouble when you walk into Eddie Bauer or Banana Republic, find that you can't tell the difference between the men's clothes and the women's clothes -- and realize that you don't care.
It seems as if every time I try to make a statement with my personal appearance, I mispeak myself. I recently gave up the mousey pastels I usually wear for a Christmas red wool blazer. I felt powerful and confident just pulling it on. This would be the new me. In charge. Sure of myself.
"Oh," said a friend. "I didn't realize red was in again."