An open letter to “Hoochie Mamas”

Yes, you know who you are. You are everywhere. Tell me, please—where can I flee from your presence? You are my age (30’s-40’s+) and you are spending way too much time in the junior’s department of your local department store. Give your teenage daughter her clothes back and head to the nearest Talbots. Do not pass “Go.” Do not collect $200. Go, go, go. I’ll drive you there myself.

Yes, I’m talking to you who boarded my plane last week and garnered a captive audience when you wrestled to get your bag in the overhead bin. Unfortunately, the entertainment you provided was less about stuffing an oversized bag into an undersized bin and more about your ability to stuff your belly and bosoms into a shirt better suited for my 5 lb. Yorkie. And you forgot the cardinal rule about undergarments: Wear them. For that, you get a fashion citation from me and countless other passengers who were forced to attend the sneak preview of “A Journey Through My Mid-life Crisis Years.” Trust me, the rating was not suitable for the minors on board.

Clearly, I have reached my quota of “Hoochie Mama” sightings. I am not sure if it was the woman in seat 14C who caused me to finally crack, or the middle-aged woman in Best Buy strutting through the laptop section with her teenage son in tow. Did she miss the memo? No micro-minis after college. It doesn’t matter if she is a size 2 or a size 22—the answer is “No!” When she dropped her printer cartridge on the ground and spent a good half hour trying to pick it up, I hoped it would serve as a wakeup call that its time to retire the skirt. Her poor son seemed mortified when she finally screamed at him to pick it up for her. Teenage boys are supposed to fetch groceries from the mini-van and bring them inside, not rescue their mothers from the perils of poor fashion choices.

So, why the rant, you ask? I am tired of being subjected to too much, um, how can I word this gently…too much YOU. And I have a hunch I speak on behalf of many others who have felt helpless and without a vote in this matter. Ah, but you say this is a free country and you are simply exercising your rights to wear whatever you want. Well, the rest of us have rights too, you know. Just as we do not wish to hear a co-worker’s Monday morning recap of his/her sexual escapades over the weekend in the name of TMI (too much information), we do not wish to witness your public displays of TMY (too much you). Your epidermis is showing and its time to cover it up. There, I said it. Whew, I feel so much better.

I am certainly not saying that those of us in our 30’s and 40’s should be sentenced to a closet full of holiday-themed sweaters and Naturlizer footwear. I myself am not a Talbots-kind-of-gal. I recently purchased a pair of jeans from Banana Republic and the first time I wore them, at least ten friends asked me if I had lost weight. Apparently, the low-rise style is more flattering to my shape, which of course, makes Banana Republic my new favorite store. But, I am not naïve enough to couple the jeans with a cute midriff-baring tee. I do my once-a-month crunches just like the rest of my 40 year-old soccer-mom friends. They are usually brought on suddenly while watching an episode of NBC's "The Biggest Loser" and abandoned just as suddenly when the Cool Ranch Doritos ad runs midway through the show. And, for the record, it’s not an issue of being ashamed of my body. I happen to have six-pack abs, but mine are covered with an insulating layer of fat and can be a bit hard to detect at times. The bottom line is that no one wants to see my midriff except my sweet hubbie—in the privacy of our own bedroom where bare midriffs belong.

There is nothing wrong with donning the latest fashions, but do so in good taste. There is a balance between looking stylish and looking ridiculous. And if you have a daughter, remember a parent leads by example. It’s disturbing enough that you wear hoochie clothes, but even more so, that you allow your daughter to leave the house dressed like a stripper-in-training. Now, be a good girl and go clean out your closets. And do us a big favor and resist the urge to consign or give those hoochie clothes away. Deposit them in the nearest dumpster. It’s time to bury this trend…in the nearest landfill.