I believe that I was brainwashed. Seduced, beguiled, completely bamboozled by the world of fashion.

There was a time when women who had dark roots were considered sloppy, lazy or just plain negligent. Now they call it 'under lights' or 'lowlights' and salons charge a fortune to make the customer look like a piece of crap--in my humble opinion.

Underwear was to be hidden, not exposed and brassieres came in three colours, white, black and skin tone. A walk through Victoria Secrets will illustrate how much things have changed. Hell, I stood laughing at a double D number in plaid on display. That's sexy?

And someone should really explain thongs to me. For my entire life I have fought against bunching cotton--even some silk--from sliding in the crack and now they sell these wisps of cloth for three times the price of bloomers. You can't tell me they're comfortable? Go on! You might as well go commando for all the difference those briefs make.

I actually refused to allow one of my employees to go on a sales call because she was wearing crocs; God-awful, shiny bright green ones with yellow toes. But that was then, before I became practical in my old age. I still think they're ugly, but I've been wearing the same indestructible pair for ten years. I justify this by telling myself that no one is looking, and anyway, who cares?

Coats had to be longer than a hem line or suitable cropped at the waist. Now it's all over the place. It's called layering, a fashion term, not a strategy for staying warm.

I still remember skorts and hot pants--owned them, wore them.

It was easier to know what was stylish--back then in the Stone Age. If the magazines screamed mini, we hemmed our garments to a level of barely modest and practised sliding onto a seat rather than sitting down like any normal human being.

My personal fashion crisis occurred when long, pointy-toed stilettos went out of style and were replaced with gaudy bulbous round-toed flats. With the 'shit kickers,' women always had a lethal weapon on hand. Those ugly loafer look-alikes were terribly disheartening to a girl like me who was 'blessed' with size eleven feet. I looked like I was wearing army boots.

Speaking about sizes, any woman over a size fourteen hated shopping. Sure we had some shops for bigger body shapes, but they were completely stocked with polyester, gaudy, flower-patterned dresses. Thank God for stretch pants! Surely there are a few women who remember the little stirrups on the end of each trouser leg? The intent was to keep the material stretched so that the pants looked freshly-ironed. Ah, but they were called slacks in my time, but I digress.

Of all things I loved most, and had an extensive inventory of in my wardrobe, was the dickey. These chopped off turtle necks were worn under blouses and sweaters and made me feel very theatrical and put together.

I'm old enough to remember when pantyhose was introduced to the market and tall enough that I distinctly recall the waistband, with a life of its own, taking a slalom run down the rolls of my belly fat to settle at the top of my thighs.

And who can forget the 'modern-day' chastity belt--the girdle. Oh shucks, they're still around. They call them body shapers now. Every woman owns Spanks, don't we?

We had rules, never to be broken. White clothes, especially shoes, were never worn before Victoria Day (Memorial Day in the US) or after Labour Day. Now they call it 'winter white.' 'Blue and green should never be seen.' Are you kidding? What I really can't wrap my head around is the mixing of prints with stripes. It just doesn't work for me.

The only place I am assaulted by these images in magazines is in the doctor's office, and I confess, some of those periodicals are several years old. But I haven't caught up to the stale-dated advice.

I have a very clear memory of trying to stay trendy and never quite measuring up. Though it surely dates me, the phrase, 'let it all hang out,' is likely an accurate description of my fashion status. Hell, I can go for a week or more without ever bridling myself into a bra--of any colour.

The truth is, I believe I'm over the romance with trendiness. I just don't care anymore.