Are you surprised, dear Blogees, by my choice of topics today? Never really imagined me as the kind of gal who even had an opinion on playsuits or could even say the word without collapsing in either a.) hysteria or b.) feminist rage?
Well, perhaps you have forgotten that I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. A fourteen-year-old daughter who is the proud possessor of three actual garments she refers to as playsuits.
I feel faint.
It’s a very strange feeling to have become the dinosaur you always imagined your parents were. It never seemed possible that my generation would ever be out of date — we were radicals, progressives, feminists, marching for equality and genuinely believing that we were the future. We threw off our corsets (or was it our bras?) wore boots and jeans and biker jackets, or short skirts with boots and biker jackets, and it was all very sexy — but somehow totally un-girly.
It’s not that my daughter is simpering in any way. Her school turns out Masters of the Universe women who shun typically female subjects like art and English (which is what I studied at university) in favour of astrophysics and politics — which fills me with admiration and awe.
But what is it with the playsuits? The flippy skirts, smoky eyes, mascara, the high high heels…
I looked in the mirror the other day and realized that I was wearing the exact same outfit I wore at age six: a red and blue striped t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. I’m 54 and it can’t be right to have evolved so little.
I’m suddenly coming over all tyrannosaurus rex.