This is as vain and shallow as the title suggests.  I think the youngsters call it a "mid youth crisis"...

Alas, Summer is upon us.  And yes, I know that means ice-cream, paddling pools, charred barbecue food, birds chirping merrily and endless sunshine and laughter, but unfortunately it also means that I am now required to abandon my comfy winter-ish attire and go to the shops for some much-needed summer outfits.
 
Now I’m not a big fan of shopping, and for me, a trip to the High Street has to be planned with careful precision.   For example, the time has to be chosen carefully (no school holidays or Saturday afternoons) and friends are not permitted to accompany me, for the simple reason that they like the whole experience a tad too much.  The usual modus operandi usually consists of my entering a shop, scanning the rails in about 0.5 seconds, picking up the first thing I like the look of, paying for it and leaving in haste.  My friends, for some reason, will actually rummage through the rails and sometimes even run the gauntlet of the dreaded changing-room assistant and – try things on first!  They are far braver than I am.  My last 'changing room' memory was of the disastrous time I had tried in vain to find a bikini to take on a summer holiday...after what felt like a lifetime of looking around I finally picked one up and scuttled off into the old-socks, sour-deodorant and distorted-mirror-infested world of the changing room.  Then, as I pulled the curtain across I came face-to-face with an enormous poster of Pamela Anderson modelling the very same bikini I was about to try on.  You won’t be surprised to hear that I did the only thing any sane woman would have done – i.e. turned swiftly on my heel and walked away, never to return.
 
Despite what my previous paragraphs indicate, I have never really had a problem with my physical appearance.  I’m tall but not too tall, slim but not skinny.  I have never given too much thought to my clothes; I do want them to look nice, but in the main they are simply things I put on to stop myself from scaring pigeons and small children as I walk to the train station of a morning.  I can wear most things I like and that suits me fine.  Or at least, it usually does. 
 
I haven’t been shopping for a while and since my last expedition, a university campus opened in my area, in close proximity to the High Street.  This means that there are now endless reams of taut teenage girls, shopping in exactly the same shops as I am.   The shops appear to have altered their sizing and styles in order to accommodate their new clientele...and it shows; as I enter and leave the shops in quick succession, I come to realise that the clothes are in fact only suitable for Barbie dolls.  They are that small; that glitzy; that annoying, in the way they can only be when you realise that you can’t wear any of them yourself.  And for some reason I’m feeling quite depressed about this - I’m getting older, so I have to be more selective - I can’t just wear anything I want any more without thinking about it.  Sod 30 being the new 21...as far as I’m concerned it’s the new 50.  At least, that’s how I feel next to the tiny twelve-year-old Avril Lavigne lookalike who is standing next to me in Topshop. 

The teenagers regard me with disdain, followed by thinly disguised horror if I pick up something from the rails that they might previously have been interested in.  I would have thought this sort of behaviour a tad cheeky of them if I hadn’t behaved in exactly the same way myself, roughly twelve years ago...
 
Anyway, I continue with the shopping torture, picking up a T-shirt that seems OK-ish, until I realise that it has ‘Made in the ’80’s’ emblazoned across it in fluorescent writing.   Ouch.  I was born in the ‘70’s (OK, so it was the latter end, but even so...) – would I be committing fraud if I wore one of these?  Not that it matters...I’m not tempted anyway.  Even if people don’t guess that I am in fact an almost-thirty year old woman posing as someone at least four years younger, I will know – and I’ll begin to slide down that slippery slope of ageing self-denial that has previously claimed the likes of Vanessa Feltz and that nice Liz McDonald from 'Coronation Street'.

As I go through the rails of denim hotpants and navel-skimming minidresses, it seems the only other viable option for me are smock tops (the new "on trend" item according to ‘LK Today’).  These have the unfortunate effect of making anyone who wears them appear as though they are eight months pregnant. And whilst I can see that there could be many advantages to this look (i.e. I might actually get offered a seat on the Tube every now and again) – I’m afraid the cons vastly outweigh the pros. 
 
All around me the teenagers are rummaging carelessly through the rails of kiddie clothes, and I am constantly aware of them.  I don’t want to be them, or even necessarily to look like them.  I simply envy the fact that they can go into these shops, as I used to do, pick up anything they like and wear it without looking ridiculous. (Well, almost anything – I’m not sure about those gold lurex dungarees over in the corner).  And for the first time in my life, I feel genuinely and defeatedly old.  I leave the shops empty-handed, and shuffle off home to my comfy jeans and zip-up cardigans.
 
Later on, as I am clearing out my wardrobe to rid myself of the things I used to wear when I was nineteen and beautiful, I discuss my shopping experience with my husband.  He is matter-of-fact in his response.  “Well, you’re getting older so of course you can’t wear all that stuff any more...”  he says, eyes glazed over in utter boredom as I hold up a sequinned mini-skirt with a hopeful expression on my face (I know what you’re thinking – and no, I wouldn’t wear it now.  I’d just quite like to have the option).  “You’re a bit bigger than you were ten years ago, anyway...” he adds... “none of that would look any good now...”  And off he plods into the lounge to watch another episode of ‘American Chopper’.  Bless his heart.

He is right, of course – and I know there’s far more to life than worrying about getting older, and clothes, and figures that aren’t quite what they were ten years ago.  Not to worry - by tomorrow I’ll be back to worrying about the more important things in life - like world peace, homelessness, famine and what time 'Countdown' is coming on.