Promise You'll Tell?

Yesterday, while in the bathroom at the office I felt like I was in a time warp. Like, hello-and-welcome-to-the-late-nineties time warp. And you would have said so too if the shoes in the stall next to you were black loafers with a 2 inch chunky heel with a square toe and elasticized jersey material. to take it a step further: there was a thin woven leather belt on the ground next to it. I honestly stopped and started flipping through to try to remember if today was a dress-up day and I'd somehow overlooked it. I expressly remember when that was in style, and it would not be fair to say it was 'a few' seasons ago. I fully expected to step out and see full-on mom jeans with a heavy color blocked rugby shirt on top... tucked into said jeans and cinched at the waist.

But instead of waiting around to see, I darted out there feeling shocked and a little guilty for mentally trash-talking someone's unintentional retro outfit. (yes, of course I washed my hands)

Which brings me to this: promise that when the day comes that I am that person dreadfully out of style, even to the point that a new mom who rarely 'dresses up' past yoga pants for the day (yes, work out clothes and I've yet to work out), promise you will tell me. Drop me a copy of last season's Vogue if you can spare it, forcefully clean out my closet, demand I hand over the belt. Whatever it takes. Because a true friend will tell you.