One more reason to wear heels. And a bandana.

I was recently confronted by an ugly truth: I am getting older. I’m not quite sure if this means that I am ugly, but the realization certainly was. I’ve also realized that motherhood does not make a woman more fashionable. More womanly, perhaps. Wiser, almost certainly – but not more fashionable. Fashion takes time and money and energy - things that most mothers, myself included, often experience a dearth of. I manage to brush my teeth and make sure my clothes are not stained with grape juice and sticky rice before I leave the house in the morning. For months now I’ve been experiencing some low-grade melancholy about both my dowdiness and my frugality, and worry about my looming 34^th birthday. I’ve been wanting a haircut, an exercise regimen, a day at the spa, a new wardrobe, a snappy scarf and new shoes. Better skin tone and smaller pores. I’ve been worrying about what 44 is going to feel like, if 34 feels this much like a failure.

All this became part of an epiphany – or a blog post if you will – a few days ago while I waited at the elevator with my co-workers. I attempted to make cheery chitchat by complimenting one of my younger-but-born-in-the-same-decade workmates on her outfit: a billowing, gauzy frock that looked like it had just been worn on a runway, complete with perfectly tailored pants and spotless heels. Impeccable hair spun into an impossible bun - held together with a single, shining pin - and glowing makeup. It was truly impressive, and clearly required a lot of time, planning and long skinny limbs. Oh, and money. I was envious but didn’t want to show it. I tried to sound genuine when I complimented her.

At first her response was gracious. She thanked me and told me where she had bought her clothing (a swank place popular with hip young professionals) and which I knew only by name, but not by wallet. At this stage in my life I find I am more Gmarket and less Zara, if you know what I mean. But then for some unfathomable reason she peered at me (narrow eyed and smugly) for a few seconds before settling on my shirt and said:

“Oh. Um, I like your shirt. It’s kinda … nice …”.

Kinda. And trailed off dramatically. And cleared her throat. And then pushed the elevator button again.

And that was all I needed, folks. Seriously.

You think I’m going to say I punched her in her fake nose, but I didn’t. That’s not what happened. What actually happened is that any discomfort and worry I felt about my own recycled fashion and Irish thighs vanished like a blemish on Photoshop. And I laughed. Deeply and well. You know - the kind of laughter that just *feels good*. The kind of laughter that just doesn’t happen often enough. It was liberating.

I didn’t feel bad at all because I suddenly saw how ludicrous we were. And how unimportant our fashion was. There we were, standing at the elevator in one of the most respected institutions in the country, taking a break from our work – a job I know we both worked very hard to get - and the only thing we could find to talk about was clothing? I was wasting my time by being insecure, and she was wasting my time by being catty. We should have been holding hands and gazing into each other eyes instead of eyeing each other’s trousers and bags like enemies. If there were teams then we would most certainly be on the same one.

Of course, I’m not sure if there are teams, or if there is a them vs. us. I still don’t know if I’m a radical or liberal feminist. I don’t know if I’m Paglia or Wolf, Prada or Pucci or Palin or Obama*– but I’m sure I don’t want to fight about it - and I don’t want to get distracted by pettiness and smallness. I was never that kind of person, not even as teenager, and I certainly don’t want to start now. I don’t want to be that kind of role-model for my daughter.

And here’s another point: I’m sure that she is going to need role models. Because feminism may not be dead but it is confused right now, and has been for a while. As Rebecca Walker (a few of us around here read her, I guess) said: “if Feminism was Wal-Mart, and had as many decades-old unresolved grievances against it, it would have long ago been bankrupt”. So true.

I’m not sure why we do it. Tear each other down and beat each other up, I mean. The theories are varied: genetics, evolutionary psychology, environment, effects of pop culture, lack of role models, etc … and I certainly have no revolutionary answers but I know that the last thing women need is more infighting, squabbling and jealousy. Really. Because we still have this shit to deal with, and this and, of course, this video reveals a lot too. Pun not intended.

The things that have been causing me to fret: age, baby fat, laugh lines and saggy breasts are actually the things that I should be most proud of. Or, more honestly, I should be proud of the processes that brought them about. And I shouldn’t be just complimenting my younger workmates on their fashion choices and accessories, I should be engaging them in real dialogue about the things that we have in common, and the very real challenges we all face as women: glass ceilings, childcare issues and leering male workmates. And unrealistic expectations. From everyone – maybe even ourselves.

So go ahead, have a good day - and wear whatever you want.

*well, ok. I do know the answer to that one.

This is Carol’s first post on Naked in the Sauna. She’ll be back soon with new shoes and a nursing bra.