Skinny Jeans: Can we please hear the final death rattle?

I've recently been on the lookout for some cropped, straight-leg pants that hit just below the waist; the right spring/summer item to be dressed up or down, depending on shoe choice. As always, I started at my Usuals: I'm forever faithful to Old Navy, Target, Anne Taylor Loft, Marshall's, The Banana Republic Outlet, etc. I'm pretty much over the mall – I have a strange aversion to paying $70 for a white button-up shirt. (This means you, Express).
Old Navy and I usually have an amicable relationship; that is to say, I've always found it cute and fairly trendy, but not too young (read: Wet Seal. Is that even around anymore?). I can pick up random, inexpensive pieces that team well with personal or vintage touches, and make it my own for a reasonable price. The designers at Old Navy, it seems, have other ideas. While bypassing the obvious, the multiple tables of “skinny jeans” that don't EVER seem to go away, I noticed that almost every single pant, save for a few styles of regular denim, found it necessary to advertise the unpleasant adjectives “skinny,” “skinny fit,” and “super low-rise”. The hell, Old Navy? I assure you, the 12 year-old girls are still buying their infant-sized clothing at Hollister, and there they shall stay. All I want is a pair of pants that actually covers my derrière and doesn't leave a gap at the waist large enough to fit a lunch box – in other words, I would like to have pants with a zip-fly longer than, well, an actual fly.

Thirtysomething.

Something about 30 makes me want to run screaming in the opposite direction. Thirty is my parents when I was born. “Don't trust anyone over 30.” It's Mary Tyler Moore moving into a tiny Minneapolis apartment and “Oh, Mr. Graaant”-ing her way through pending middle age; the Capri pants, 60's flip and bubbly cuteness of Laura Petrie long since gone.
More importantly, I'm scared in a “stop the ride, I want to get off” kind of way. Except it's like being on the ferris wheel at the Taylor County Fair in 1985, gripping the sides of that tippy cart and realizing that it's not going to until the craggy-faced carnie says so.
I have a big list of “supposed to's” (as in, “I was supposed to . . . ) for 30. I was supposed to be married. (Check. Yay!). I was supposed to have a cute little house. (Check). I was supposed to have a successful writing career. (Um, not check). I was supposed to have a baby, or at least one on it's merry way. (Medical science will be working on that check).
I'm not sure where all of these expectations came from – I could blame it on society, television, reading, school, my parents – but they're my expectations, and mine alone, so, sure as that Taylor Co. Fair carnie had snake tattoos and a Kool hanging out of his mouth, the burden is mine to bear. Thirty solidifies my adult status, and isn't it irresponsible of me to place the blame on anyone but myself? Chalk one up to an adult thought pattern on my part. Yay!
I'm starting to forget things. Like what my awesome Paula Abdul L.A. Gear sneakers looked like (sorry, it was 1989), what clothes I wore and classes I had in high school, what my family used to eat for dinners. All potentially silly stuff, but I'm a writer – I notice everything. Smells, sounds, nuances – they're what my work is made of. I remember , as a child, asking my parents about their proms, or what they did when they were my age – and being so surprised that they really didn't remember some of those milestones. So, in other words, by age 40 I'll have forgotten everything about my high school prom. See? Scary.
American institution Andy Rooney (yes, he of the eldery editorial rants) said,

“A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 30 give a damn what you might think about her or what she's doing.”

Touche, Rooney. For a girl who spent most of her life worrying about classmates watching her when she got up to use the bathroom in school, was too afraid to speak up in a group, never thought she'd have a boyfriend, hated her legs and viciously criticized her body even at 118 pounds - I've come a long way, mentally. I've turned off (most of) the image noise, don't give a crap about walking through an auditorium of people, and could even be described as outgoing. And, as for mooning over boys and dog-earing yearbook pages – I ended up with a husband so great, that my 14 year-old persona would never have believed it.
I'd never listed a “supposed to be happy” in my mental collection of high expectations for adulthood – which is odd, because now, that is definitely one that I can give a resounding “check.” Thanks, Andy Rooney. I won't make fun of you (much) the next time you write an editorial composed entirely of complaints about stretchy watch bands.

P.S. - I Love This

Erica Domesek is my new DIY goddess. Her blog, P.S. - I Made This (and companion book of the same name), showcases a collection of tantalizing do-it-yourself fashion projects with user-friendly directions and wallet-friendly materials. Super-cheap copper pipe couplings from the lowly hardware store find an entirely new life when teamed with thick, elegant grosgrain ribbon ("Rose Gold Statement Necklace"); puffballs and hot glue reinvent a plain handbag ("Pompom Purse"); a sliced-up cotton t-shirt becomes a boho accessory ("Fringe Scarf"). Ms. Domesek has reached new heights of crafty-cool, recently gracing the set of Martha Stewart's afternoon show with some DIY examples from her new book. While cutting up a pair of tights for a funky necklace project demo, she very politely scoffed at Martha's inane question, "now, are these Wolfords?" ($90 hoisery, for the uninitiated). Sigh. Oh, Martha.

I'll take the $500 t-shirt, please.

I've been in love with Cate Blanchett's 2011 Oscar gown - mixed reviews be damned. She looks like a futuristic, vintage, Grecian warrior princess in that stunning Givenchy confection. I keep studying the details (flowing pale lavender fabric juxtaposed with sharp angles, gorgeous beading in a lovely contrasting yellow) intently, in case I missed some cue that was supposed to slap some fashion sense into me, as in: "oh, god, that gown is truly hideous. What was I thinking?!" It was a bad-ass risk, and fortunately, Miss Cate has the sort of kooky je ne sais quoi to pull it off. Besides, if I had to see one more nude-shaded, sparkly column gown, I was going to scream.

Drooling over that dress brought to mind the little gem at top right:
That's Claire Danes at the 1997 Oscars, adorably gracing the red carpet in something that is so quintessentially mid-90s, I would have killed for a copy to wear to my junior prom. An ice-blue, bias-cut silk skirt, and, um - is that a cap-sleeved t-shirt? I remember being absolutely fascinated by that outfit, particularly with the vintagey, rhinestone-esque necklace (this was well before mainstream costume baubles took cues from Grandma's jewelry box). Bias-cut silk doesn't do me any favors, but I still don't think I could pass it up.