Truth in Advertising ... And Blue Jeans

If you have coffee (or cocktails, especially cocktails) with women of a certain age, at some point in the conversation you'll hear these three words:

"My body's changed."

Generally, this statement is accompanied by hand gestures that communicate helplessness at best (hopelessness at worst). Our bodies are changing and I'm here to tell you that it's frustrating as hell.

When I was younger (and thinner), I used to wonder why so many older women wore caftans and muumuus. Now, I know.

Because their jeans don't fit anymore!

I was never skinny-skinny, but I was fairly fit and trim. (Actually, looking back at photos, I didn't realize how fit and trim I was. What's that funny eCard? "I wish I was as thin as I was the first time I thought I was fat.") Nevertheless, I used to have some trouble buying jeans. Invariably, the hips would be too tight or the waists would be too big. When I did find a pair cut to my ... um ... proportions, I would happily wear them day-in, day-out until they pretty much disintegrated.

Until this past week, I had two pairs of jeans in my closet. Neither is threadbare and they are — allegedly — my size. But, something's happened. You guessed it ...

"My body's changed!"

Suddenly, the thighs, hips and derriere are baggy. Under any other (pre-menopausal) circumstances, this would be good tidings of great joy and much celebration would ensue. But now, any self-satisfaction is cancelled out by the fact that in both cases, the waists are too tight. Like way too tight. Like I can barely breathe and I've developed that most dreaded of all figure features: the muffin top.

OMG.

I realize that my evolving shape is not the end of the world. But, c'mon. On top of internal heat waves, I have to buy new jeans? Not fair. Not cheap. And not even easy. Every pair I've tried lately has given me the same issues. Too tight where they used to be loose. Too loose where they used to be tight. 

My sixteen-year-old daughter, meanwhile, has at least a dozen different pairs of jeans, each of which fits her like a glove. Abercrombie, Delia's, Aeropostale, Urban Outfitters ... it doesn't matter. She's like a one-teen Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. All things denim magically wrap themselves around her perfectly.

This past weekend, we set off on our first college visits with some good friends. The rest of the long weekend was spent shopping together. At Nordstrom Rack, we found a display of marked-down NYDJ. For those of you unfamiliar with the brand, it stands for "Not Your Daughter's Jeans." They were 45% off. They were unabashedly "mom jeans." But, I had reached the point of denim desperation. I broke down and tried them on.

OMG.

What a difference a cut makes. That and some stretch. The NYDJs actually fit my waist and my butt and my hips and my thighs. At the same time! They're cut higher than anything you'd find in my daughter's closet. And, suffice it to say, that's fine by me. As you can imagine, I bought them. In fact, I'm wearing them now, with an embroidered blouse and a pair of classic Frye boots.

I definitely don't (definitely, definitely don't) look sixteen. But I look pretty damn good for 51.

What can I say? These are not my daughter's jeans. Truth.

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Abercrombie: No Fat Chicks Need Apply

Oh, Abercrombie. Abercrombie. Abercrombie.

When it comes to building a brand for the teen market, Abercrombie & Fitch has done more than make a name for itself. It's created a larger than life, utterly irresistible, almost mythic personality, luring those young adults away from other stores with saner prices. In fact, good luck to my fellow mothers if they happen to be at the mall in search of something practical — say, a sports bra or new gym shoes — for their offspring.

"Can we just look in Abercrombie? Puh-leeeeeeese?" 

The stores are dimly-lit (the better to keep you from actually examining the merchandise or the price tags) with amplified, throbbing music. It's so loud that you can barely hear yourself think, much less hear your teen's negotiations for just one more pair of distressed skin-tight jeans. It honestly feels like hell (and I don't even believe in hell). This is strategic, no doubt. After a few (a very few) minutes, you are desperate to leave and no longer thinking clearly. 

"Must get out of here. Take my MasterCard." 

Not a brand to leave out any of the senses, Abercrombie has its own distinct smell. They douse the clothes and the fixtures — and probably the staff — with their signature scent. It wafts out the store's shuttered entrance and down the walkways of the mall. And once you've made a purchase, it follows you back to your car. Invariably, I have to drive home from Abercrombie's with the windows open.

Then, there are the practically pornographic shopping bags — featuring studly young bucks, tousled hair, six-pack abs, and their jeans pulled down to there. On more than one occasion, I've thrown away perfectly good Abercrombie bags because, really, I'd be too self-conscious to re-use them. I'd feel like a cougar. 

And finally, to complete the Abercrombie experience, the stores only hire picture-perfect people. The supernaturally breathtaking are given jobs as greeters, welcoming you to this adolescent Shangri-La. The drop-dead gorgeous work the cash registers. And the merely beautiful are relegated to folding and stocking shelves.  

Those with zits or unruly hair (a.k.a. regular teenagers) are not welcome. Neither are fatties. And, not just as employees. Abercrombie doesn't want to sell to them either.

According to Abercrombie CEO, Mike Jeffries, "We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in Abercrombie], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely."

"That’s why we hire good-looking people in our stores. Because good-looking people attract other good-looking people, and we want to market to cool, good-looking people. We don’t market to anyone other than that."

This is an adult speaking?

So that's why the store doesn't have a size XL. (And, trust me, there ain't nothin' particularly large about their L either.) Their jeans only go up to size 10, although they start at 00. For the record, the average American woman wears a size 14.

It's hard for anyone other than a not-quite-developed teenager to squeeze into Abercrombie jeans. But there are plenty of teens who can't either. Alas, they are forced to forego Abercrombie and shop at American Eagle Outfitters, Aeropostale, H&M or Forever 21. I certainly don't feel sorry for any lost revenue on the part of Abercrombie & Fitch. But, I do think it's a shame that a large number of larger teens have yet another reason to feel self-conscious or somehow less than those who happen to weigh less.

My own teen daughter, always lean and athletic, is getting curvier as she gets older. 

Hello? Women have curves.

In the past few years, my daughter's gone from the coveted 00 to a plain single-digit 0 to a 2 to a 4. Soon, she may actually need a size 6. Sacre bleu! (Time to send her to a fat farm, obviously.) The thing is, a teen girl should be considered more attractive with hips and breasts, not less. Abercrombie is promoting an unrealistic ideal — why should a young woman covet the figure of an emaciated boy?

As much as Mr. Jeffries' comments disturb me (disgust might be a better word), there is a bright side to all of this.

Now, I finally have the perfect reason to boycott Abercrombie.

Field Guide To Moms

We've all heard about Tiger Mothers. In fact, I see them at every PTO meeting I attend (although, I confess, after three years serving as the PTO secretary, I haven't attended much lately — PTO burnout). These are the moms who arrive on time, sit up straight, take notes, and ask questions pertinent only to their little genius/diva/Olympic champion.

"I have a question," they begin, smiling at the group complicitly as though, surely, we all have the same query. "If my daughter is already taking 5 AP classes, can she still start a third language this year?"

Or, "Why does woodwind ensemble meet at the same time as lacrosse? It's really impossible for my son to give up either, and he has his heart set on winning student body president this year."

Or, "Is it possible for the kids to get extra credit for their summer jobs? My daughter is spending July in Geneva, curing cancer."

In a town like ours, Tiger Mothers are everywhere. They regularly email teachers to protest grades. They challenge school committee members, principals, and the superintendent in forums both public and private. They push their National Honor Society tiger cubs into excessive extracurricular activities to build their resumés. 

(Question: shouldn't you have to actually do something before you have a resumé?)

We also have the so-called Dolphin Mothers. These are the liberally educated PBS types. They wear embroidered jackets from Tibet and chunky jewelry. They drag their offspring to cultural events. While their manner may be more fluid, they still expect extraordinary things from their often ordinary kids.

While Tigers and Dolphins (and Helicopters) may be the most famous, here are some other mothers you may see out in the wilds of upper middle class suburbia:

The Ostrich Mother, who buries her head in the sand. As far as she knows (or wants to know), her teen is doing fine. No school issues, no friend troubles, no eating disorders, no inappropriate use of digital technology. All fine here. Thank you. Nothing to see. Move along.

The Harp Seal Mother, who sacrifices everything for her teen. In nature, the harp seal nurses her newborn 24 hours a day for 12 days. (Yikes!) During this period, the pup gains 60 pounds while the mom loses 84. (I repeat, Yikes!) In humans, this phenomenon can be observed in what teens and their moms are wearing: Uggs and Abercrombie vs. the clearance rack at Marshalls. 

The Octopus Mother, who has her many hands in as many things as possible. She runs the church youth group, coaches softball, tutors reading, organizes fundraisers, volunteers at the local thrift shop. She is generous, dedicated, utterly tireless. You see, if she stays really involved, she won't really have to let go.

The Koala Bear Mother, who carries all the weight. These moms are über supportive. In fact, they want their little joey to succeed so badly that they don't just jump in and help, they happily take over. Teen daughter's too tired to finish her essay on Ayn Rand's Anthem? No problem. The Koala will write it for her, and still find time to mash up a nice meal of eucalyptus leaves.

Most moms I know blend characteristics of all of these types. I've certainly helped with homework (stopping well before all-out ghostwriting, but I can understand the temptation). My daughter does indeed dress better than I do, and she'd be the first to complain about my high expectations and how often I insist we go to plays and museums. And, although I don't completely hide from awkward teenage truths, I have been known to turn the occasional blind eye.

So, which mother am I really? 

You'll have to ask my daughter.

The New National Pastime?

Toward the end of our drive home from Vermont yesterday, we found ourselves on Route 128, the beltway that circles Boston to the North, West and South (the Atlantic Ocean is to the East). We passed the site of a new mall in the neighboring town of Wakefield. It's going to be a huge, upscale shopping center, and there are billboards out already, trying to generate excitement even though the grand opening is many months away.

The thing is, this new shopping center is located about halfway between two others, both of which have recently become bigger and more upscale with the addition of a Nordstrom. All in all, we will now have three major malls within one sixteen-mile stretch.

This seems a little unnecessary.

Really, how many malls do we need? More importantly, how much shopping do we need to do?

Apparently the answer is "a lot."

Shopping has become the national pastime. Especially for those of us with teenage daughters. I think there are several factors involved, none of them particularly positive.

Most of our friends don't go to church (or temple or mosque) together on any kind of regular basis. In fact, clergy joke about people attending church for just three occasions now: baptisms, weddings and funerals — or, more poetically, to "hatch, match and dispatch." This is definitely true for our nuclear family. So, while our forefathers and mothers might have spent Sunday at church, followed maybe by a multigenerational family dinner, we don't. Instead, we have more free time ... and less ways to fill it. 

Where do we go? To malls. And, even that isn't a family activity necessarily. These days, I tend to do a drive by, dropping the teen and friends at the shopping center and then picking them up later.

What happened to hobbies?

What happened to ballgames, bike riding, field trips?

What happened to time spent together, a cohesive family, playing a game or relaxing in front of a roaring fire?

All of this togetherness has been replaced by hunts for the perfect blue jeans, amassing collections of tank tops, shorts or sandals, loading up on costume jewelry, cosmetics and bikini briefs from Victoria's Secret. I worry about my daughter growing up in such a culture of conspicuous consumption. 

Believe me, she has plenty of clothes! She would argue that it only seems like it because her closet is so small. Be that as it may, she is not exactly needy. Or naked.

So, we continue to worship at the altar of Abercrombie's, Hollister, Aeropostale, American Eagle, H&M, and Delia's.

But shopping stimulates our economy, you may say. I beg to differ. Nearly everything for sale at the soon-to-be three malls in our immediate vicinity was manufactured in Asia. So we're supporting off-shoring and questionable labor practices. And, many of the customers buying these sweatshop imports are doing so with credit cards, paying exorbitant interest rates for goods that they don't need and that will probably be out of style before they are paid off.

This isn't true for every shopper, of course. But, I fear that it is for many.

And what do we do with all that stuff anyway? We rent outside space because we run out of room at home. Really, the self-storage industry is one of only a handful that not only weathered the recession but grew faster than inflation.

What's wrong with this picture?

I'm just as guilty as any other mom. Yes, I confess that I have bribed my daughter with shopping trips. I have paid for her affection on more than one occasion. (Way more than one. Way, way, way more.) All of this went through my mind as we drove by yet another mall. I would have discussed it with my daughter, maybe used these observations as a teachable moment. But she was in her own world, earbuds in place, listening to Pandora on her iPhone in the back seat.

Needless to say, we did not stop at any shopping centers on our way back from Vermont. Instead, we unloaded the car and my husband made a nice fire. My daughter studied for her theatre arts quiz and I finished a novel I'd started over the weekend.

Once her test preparation was complete, my daughter brought my iPad over and snuggled up next to me.

"Can we order that shirt from Forever 21 now?" she asked in the sweetest possible voice. She has an assumptive way of making these little requests sound like ultra-natural foregone conclusions. She still had credit on a gift card she received for Christmas. It would be a shame to waste it. Right?

So, at the end of the day, there we were, a cohesive family in front of a roaring fire ... shopping.

The More Things Change, The More They ... Change

I can't keep up. It is humanly impossible to keep up.

The other morning, my tween daughter came downstairs dressed for school. She was wearing her new Converse sneakers and skintight stonewashed jeggings. For those of you who do not follow high fashion as dictated by Seventeen magazine, jeggings are the entomological love child of jeans and leggings. My daughter looks good in them; she's thirteen and athletic. (If I wore them, I would look like I was wearing sausage casings.)

But, I digress.

On top, she was wearing a green v-neck tee shirt, over a tank top. I made what I thought was a harmless observation. "You seem to be wearing plain tee shirts a lot these days. Do you like them better than the logo tees now?" She gave me that look — the one that seems to imply 'Have you been living under a rock?' — and said, cuttingly ...

"I hate logo tees."

All right then. Well, I wish she had thought of that before she begged me to buy her dozens of them. Let's see, she has American Eagle Outfitter logo tees. She has Hollister logo tees. She has Aeropostale logo tees. And, she has Abercrombie & Fitch logo tees. Lots and lots (and lots and lots) of Abercrombie & Fitch. Some say "Abercrombie & Fitch." Some just say "Abercrombie." Some just say "Fitch." Some say "A&F." Some have a moose on them. I'm not sure why.

It seems that the coolest must-haves become the un-coolest no-longer-likes at lightning speed. Just when you think you've got it figured out, the wind shifts and you're left with another trip to the mall and a massive bag for Goodwill.

I often wonder where the tipping point is. Is there one all-knowing tween girl guru out there who wakes up and decides, 'Okay, today is the day that madras shorts are no longer cool?' How do they get the word out? And, why don't they tell the parents — before we take out a second mortgage to pay our credit card bills?

Here are some other items that deserve a place in my tween's "here today, gone tomorrow" fashion hall of shame:

Pajamas — If my daughter is any indication, no self-respecting tween girl wears pajamas or nightgowns anymore. It's sweats and tee shirts or shorts and tee shirts. She does wear pajama bottoms as streetwear, but not to sleep in.

Anything Pink — There was a time, long ago by her standard but not so long ago by mine, when my daughter would only wear pink. All pink, all the time. Pink dresses, to be more specific. Back then, I marveled (with a little bit of horror) at what a girly-girl she was. It was very easy to shop for her, though. Today, she avoids pink at all costs. Blue, green, orange, brown, red ... you name it. Just not pink.

Boy-cut Bathing Suits — Last year, my daughter had a very specific two-piece bathing suit in mind. She wanted a sports bra top and boy-cut bottoms. Kind of like the skimpy uniforms women's volleyball teams wear. It took me months to find what she wanted. It took less time, much less, for the suit to fall out of favor.

Various Gym Shorts — In my daughter's middle school, they switch off between Health Ed and Phys. Ed every two weeks. When we went shopping at the end of last summer, my daughter asked for Soffe shorts. These are cotton knit and come in bright colors. The girls wear them with the waistbands rolled down around their hips. We bought several pairs. After her first week of class, she came home and explained that what she really needed was Nike track shorts. These also come in a variety of colors, but cost significantly more money. We bought several pairs. Most recently, she's informed me that what she really (really) needs are girls' basketball shorts. Longer, mesh nylon, also in lots of colors. We bought — you guessed it — several pairs.

If, at this point, you're wondering why I gave in and bought three different rounds of shorts, you don't have a tween daughter.

When it comes to satisfying her changing taste in clothing, my daughter has perfected the response that will get her what she wants. When I say, "Why can't you wear the Soffe shorts?" or "We'll get you new tee shirts when you outgrow the 83 you already have," she gives me a knowing look. It says that I've confirmed, yet again, what she already knows.

That I just don't get it.

Tweenhood is a time of slavish imitation. The need to dress and shop and look like everybody else is strong. Far stronger than logic or the power of motherly advice. I know I could push back harder. When she says, "But Mo-om, everyone else has a North Face fleece jacket," I could say — like generations of mothers before me — "If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?"

But the truth is, at this point in her life, my daughter would probably jump too.

And, she'd do so wearing the same shirt and shorts as everyone else.

Not the Target Audience

When I’m not blogging or writing movie reviews (or doing laundry or helping with homework), I run a boutique ad agency. In fact, I’ve been a copywriter and creative director for just over half my life (since September of 1984 — you can do the math). Consequently, I’m acutely aware of marketing strategy, how brands combine emotion with promotion to get us to desire and buy their products.

So, when there’s something I just don’t get (like the Twilight books or Crocs or Ke$ha), I remind myself that, “I’m not the target audience.”

One recent trip to the mall with my daughter required several repetitions of that mantra. “I’m not the target audience. I’m not the target audience.”

Like Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children, let’s start at the very beginning.

We tend to park along the side of the mall, not in the large but always crowded lot near the food court, but toward the back near an exterior entrance to a home furnishings store called Restoration Hardware. There are benefits to this. I always find a space. I never lose my car. I like walking through aisles of overstuffed sectional sofas and imagining how they could possibly fit into my early 19^th century colonial. And, once we’re in the mall, we are only a half-dressed hop, skip and jump away from … Abercrombie.

For my tween daughter, Abercrombie is the mall’s Mecca, a holy city of to-die-for casual clothing, allegedly meant for young adults but irresistible to younger teenage-wannabes. The shop is dimly lit with floor-to-ceiling peek-a-boo shutters that create a sense of mystery, if not downright danger, as you try to hurry by on your way to Macy’s. Too late! You are seduced by Abercrombie’s siren song.

Walk in and you’re met with stunning black and white photos of superhumanly gorgeous boys and girls, all of whom look like they’ve just rolled out of bed and need a cigarette. Your pulse begins to pound like the music that’s playing several decibels too loud. The place has its own distinct odor, their signature perfume, which permeates the store, the clothes, and your car the whole way home.

We are here for jeans. Not just jeans, but “super skinny destroyed jeans.” Apparently, there is real value associated with all the extra adjectives. Plain old jeans would only cost me $68. It’s $20 extra for the super and the skinny and the destroyed. I suggest that we get the regular jeans and destroy them ourselves. It could be fun, like one of those afternoons we used to spend together painting hideous ceramics at Plaster Fun Time. My daughter smiles sweetly and brings the super skinny destroyed jeans to the register. A preternaturally pretty young man flashes his pearly whites, sweeps his blond Beiberesque bangs away from his forehead, and swipes my American Express.

We escape from Abercrombie relatively unscathed — just the jeans, not a single graphic tee or hoodie. My daughter is elated. I’m a bit bewildered, but … “I am not the target audience.”

Next, we track down the store Pink, a colorful, brightly lit shop of cotton undies, sleepwear and Betty Boop-inspired lingerie. It’s the retail equivalent of Victoria’s Secret’s flirty little sister. My daughter needs a strapless bra to wear under a sundress for an upcoming bat mitzvah. Styles change, but there are some things you can rely on. Whether you’re 13 or 48, you buy a strapless bra because you have to — not because it’s comfortable.

As we’re waiting on line to pay for the uncomfortable strapless bra, I see a display of blue sleepshirts that say “PINK” on the front of them. Another display has green hoodies that say “PINK” on the back of them. A final display offers a rainbow of bikini underpants in yellow, red, orange, purple, all of which say “PINK” across their butts. I don’t get it. Then again … “I’m not the target audience.”

Our final stop is Forever 21 (or the store that I think of as “More Ho, Less Dough”). Really, if your tween daughter is playing a prostitute in the junior high play, you can find her some pretty convincing costumes here for a lot less than I just paid for destroyed denim. My daughter needs a little jacket to wear over her sundress in the temple ($9.99 on the sale rack), a pair of flats to dance in ($15 near the register), and a gift card, which will make the bat mitzvah girl very happy and her mother … well … less so. Like me, she is “not the target audience.”

A final stop at Starbucks (one vente decaf non-fat caramel macchiato, one frappucino), and we are all set. I may not be the target audience for Abercrombie, Pink or Forever 21, but I can consume overpriced concept coffee drinks with the best of them. I am, after all, “the target audience.”

Trip to the mall: $256. An afternoon with my daughter without any arguments: priceless.