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I’m noticing a lot of young women walking around New York somewhat naked. I tell myself not to judge the exposed midriffs and bellies, not to wonder, _Did she look in the mirror?_ I want to

think instead, _How great that she’s … body positive._ You don’t have to be a fashion analyst to see that what’s fine for the gym is fine for the street. Tights and leggings bravely

substitute for pants. (Pants/slacks/trousers? My mother didn’t own a single pair.) This trend inspired me to Google Lycra. I learned that it can stretch to eight times its normal size. One

look around the supermarket tells me this is true. Recently, I couldn’t help staring at a fellow passenger as we waited to board a flight. She was a tall, young, blond woman, 25-ish, wearing

a one-piece, full-length leotard-like outfit. The work it would take to get it on and then get it off to use the bathroom! My high school (class of ’68) mandated that girls wear skirts or

dresses to the knee. Pants and jeans were banned; even culottes weren’t allowed. Our gym uniforms were short versions of shirtwaist dresses in a heavy cotton. Prom gowns veered toward the

preppy. (My mother made mine, which was white piqué worn with long white gloves.) Cleavage? No, not mine, not anyone’s. Later, as a pregnant boomer, I wore camouflaging maternity clothes.

The dresses were cotton and flannel; smocks were sweet rather than sassy, often ruffled, seemingly apologetic. Today’s baby bumps are sheathed in tell-all Lycra — proud, belly

button–protuberant, beyond clingy to fused. I (try to) tell myself, _Good for her _— it’s a trophy, it’s life, quite literally. No apologies! I confess to watching _Say Yes to the Dress_,

in which prospective brides try on wedding dresses. Really? This lacily transparent, plunge-y dress is the one that induces happy tears? Bride after bride says she wants to look her sexiest

walking down the aisle. Maximum sexiness in wedding dresses? Since when? But then the judgmental me remembers how short I wore skirts and dresses in the late ’60s and early ’70s. I took up

hems and rolled up the waistbands of my pleated skirts. I remember my mother asking forlornly, “Are you leaving the house like that?” I was. If my legs were chilled by Massachusetts winters,

too bad. I didn’t think I was being flirty. It was how my friends dressed. It was fashion. Good old fashion. Trying to ignore the outerwear that looks like underwear worn proudly on the

sidewalks of New York, I tell myself, _This too shall pass_.