Why I love Nouvelle Vague

The other night, I was strolling through Bed, Bath and Beyond, picking out some new curtains for the home office.  I was walking through the aisles when…

 “How do we dance when our earth is turning, how do we sleep when our beds are burning”…

 I caught myself singing Midnight Oil from the store’s Muzak. Elevator music?  I’m singing elevator music?  Chagrined, I clamped my lips closed and shuffled into the Bedding section, furtively looking to see if anyone had heard.  Who am I – some middle-aged frumpy housewife singing stodgy canned music?  Nope, not me.  It was a momentary slip up. 

A few minutes later…

 “Pulling mussels from a shell…”

Again?  This time it’s Squeeze.  Sheesh, what’s with me?

In Decorative Pillows, I’m bellowing out lines from David Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes”.  My foray into the store extends longer than expected as I be-bop from one department to the next singing to 80’s flashbacks and buying more items than the drapes I came in for.

The next evening, I find myself pushing my cart past the frozen foods in my neighborhood grocery when…

“Tempted by the fruit of another…”

It’s Squeeze and I’m singing – again.  Then it dawns on me…

I’m not hip – and 80’s flashback is not hip.  This is no accident.   I have become “THE TARGET CUSTOMER”.  I am the consumer these stores are pandering to.  “Stay in our store and relive your youth”, they whisper.  I’m the reason Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” sells ocean cruising and the Cure’s “Pictures of You” is used on camera commercials.  Have you heard Sia’s version of The Church’s “Under the Milky Way” on the Lincoln car commercial?

I have turned into my parents.  My generation is buying the houses and Lincolns and taking cruises to the Bahamas.  Gen X is dead – Gen Y and the Millennials have usurped us.  My days are past – and now, I should be happy to push my cart through Target and sing to the Muzak’s “Pretty in Pink”.



I’ve felt like my frumpiness factor has been high the last few days.  It’s a culmination of a handful of disparate events – all culminating in my feeling old and frumpy:

1. I’ve met a boy.  We haven’t gone out, but I’m definitely interested – very interested.  And I want him to be interested, too.  He’s cute and stylish – and I am feeling neither these days.

2. Our holiday party at the restaurant was on Sunday night.  I was engulfed by nubile, perky 20-something servers with flowing bleached hair, party-bright satin dresses  hemmed two inches past their crotch and sparkly three inch high heels.  (I was wearing my spattered chef’s whites and a sweaty headband to keep my hair out of the food).

3. On the same night, I was called “matronly” and a “MILF” by my fellow kitchen compatriots.

4. My hairdresser called my current grown-out haircut “mom looking”. Needless to say,  I have an appointment at Sassoon on Thursday.

5. Tonight is my work holiday party – we need to dress warmly and stylishly.  This morning, I spent 20 minutes staring at a pile of bulky, conservative, work-appropriate sweaters – and realizing there wasn’t one stylish one in the bunch. 

To combat these feelings, I painted my fingernails bright red.  Of course, the fact that my knuckles are scraped raw from an unfortunate carrot and mandoline accident doesn’t help matters any. Ugh!