Ambling along Lexington Avenue this afternoon I could not help but notice the excessive amounts of skin flashing in the glistening sun. Women still pastey white, translucent even, from a long winter hibernation shed layers and gloriously displayed their gams and from elbow to armpit enjoyed the splendor of what fifty degrees feels like in NYC.
Huddled around a Just Salad on the Upper East side, I passed a gaggle of joyful twelve-year olds with perhaps a bit too much skin, though...and I felt a momentary pang of fear. I will one day be the mother of a tweenager. Yes, I will find myself embattled in a question of hemlines and neon bra-lettes. Eep. This frightens me.
My recent lament over princess dresses...ah this pales in comparison to the short-short. You know nothing, Jon Snow...and neither do you Michelle Metz and I apparently haven't even begun my journey in the world of parenting.
The question arises then. What does it mean to have sartorial choices? How long do I have a say in these matters and is there a line to be drawn?
Questions. Questions. Questions.
In the meantime, very happy to shed my winter tights. Maika, please wear flannel forever. Maybe I am a hypocrite?
Xo
Michelle
Disclaimer: I spent most of my twenties quite underdressed. Please disregard Halloween from 2002 onward...
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