Happy Birthday To Me

As of Sunday, I am thirty-hmphhmph years old! Hooray!

I was very pleased to receive gifts of clothes. After getting clothes for four kids and a husband, there's usually little left in the clothing budget for me, so I almost never get new and stylish clothing. Not that it mattered, because for the last few years the styles have been, shall we say, unsuited to a woman of my carriage. Women who have had four babies and zero personal trainers ought to find it beneath their dignity to wear hip-hugger pants, lest they find the waistband of the pants falls beneath their, um, dignity. And it didn't help that the Shirt Design Committee evidently didn't send memos to the Pants Design Committee, because shirts were kept short as waistlines dropped, creating a highly unacceptable gap between shirt and pants at the midsection. Maybe it's not so unacceptable if you're 17 years old and really hot, but if you're much older than that, the midriff doesn't look so good.

Fortunately the Shirt Committee finally got to talking to the Pants Committee, and shirts have gotten longer so that now those of us with stretch marks can at least tuck our shirts into the hiphugger pants, thus covering up the rolls of fat (although the tightness of the shirts ensures that no one will miss the fact that the rolls are there). I received a few of those shirts, along with a very nice skirt in the modern tiered style. And finally, I can now wear that pair of fashionably low-slung capris my sister got me for my birthday in a previous year, and not look like a Goodwill refugee.