Helping you crack the cryptic dress-code

My girlfriend E recently received a wedding invitation that clearly stated where the ceremony would take place, clearly stated at what time the reception would begin and clearly stated to what address all in-lieu-of-one's-presence presents should be shipped.

But then, there at the very bottom were four of the most inane words ever put to raised script:

Attire: Black-tie optional

"Optional?" I asked, "What do they mean, optional?"

"I dunno, but that's what it says."

"What are your friends wearing?"

"I don't have any friends going to this wedding, it's a family thing."

"Optional, as in optional optional?"

"I don't kn..."

"Give the bride a call, ask her what the hell she meant."

"I can't, I don't know her that well -- do you think I have to wear a long dress? I don't really own any long..."

"It's ridiculous! If they want a black-tie wedding, why not just write 'black-tie' on the invitation? If they want a semi-formal wedding, write 'semi-formal.' If they want a free-for-all, don't even bring it up. But why, of all the confusing things they could do to their guests, throw 'optional' on at the end?"

"Yeah, like I said, I don't get it. That's why I'm asking you."

"Well, I think you have to go black-tie. Always better to err on the side of being too dressed up."

"Really? But I don't think I own anything black-tie-ish...actually, I don't even really know what 'black-tie' means, do you?"

The answer to that question coming later today (probably tonight), along with my interpretation of what is most appropriate for a young professional woman to wear in attendance at white-tie, formal, semi-formal, business-casual and informal events.

And for no other reason than to remind the public at large of just how important age-appropriate dress is (not to mention the idiocy of pairing a mini dress with thigh-high boots in mid-December), here's mini-Pringle-can Panettiere and her 47 year old Madame Mother shopping in New York City last weekend:

Miley on my mind

I'm not gonna lie, when I was 14 years old - the age 'tween sweetheart Miley Cyrus was in the picture above - I threw this same coy expression at older men in grocery stores, sneaked second-glances at my Father's tweed-'n'-leather-elbow-patched colleagues as I took their coats at our annual holiday party, and of course, then there was the meticulously built Gene Hackman shrine before which I knelt each night to pray to whomever was listening that I might one day have the opportunity to take him in all his Avery-in-"The Firm" glory and...well, yeah.

And as my parents like to remind me on occasion with hung heads and incredulous "how did she come from us?" expressions, there was the incident with my 8th grade volleyball coach, Mr. F., to whom I once responded, "But we just met, didn't we?" when he quite forcefully asked me to remove my shoe after I'd just fractured my left ankle in my first girl-on-girl collision.

Point is, I'm not here to criticize little Miss Hannah Montana for her precociousness. I grew up with ultra-normal parents and an ultra-normal brother in ultra-normal Norman, OK and Okemos, MI, not among the ranks of Nashville and Hollywood celebrities with my own hit TV show and platinum record, and still, my hormones raged hard, fast, early and insatiably. Environmental factors may have something to do with the acceleration of a child's proclivity for (ahem) hormonal exploration, but they certainly aren't the only determinant. That being said, when it comes to the very newly-minted 15 year old MiCy, there's no achy-breaky argument about it, she's firmly in the fast lane to big-girl-dom in her fabulously tacky $690 Louboutins (shoes that ironically smack of a 4th grade art project) whether she likes it, wants it or not.

Where I have an issue - a major one - is when this so-called "sweet," "innocent," "wholesome," celebriteen steps out wearing this:


From a figure-flattering standpoint, she looks great. Absolutely great. The dress flatters her toned legs, highlights her defined shoulders, hugs her just-the-right-size-for-strapless cup-size perfectly -- I could go on and on about how women like Paula Abdul, Tara Reid and Beyoncé could all afford to take a page or two from this one's book. Her Nuj Novakhett mini isn't my favorite dress by any means, and I shake my head in distress at the shoes, but overall, I offer this look some of my highest praise for a young star still nascent in the process of defining her personal style.

And for a pre-show appearance at the American Music Awards, I can't think of a more venue-appropriate color and cut. Definitely an 'A' grade in that category as well.

My disappointment doesn't lie with Miley for wanting to don a dress with such a grown-up neck and hemline - after all, I know with right certainty I would've greeted Jeff S. at my front door in that same get-up for freshman Homecoming if I had the chance - rather it's geared toward the parents who allowed her to make that decision.

I've said this before and I'll say it again, one of the most meaningful lessons my Mother imparted to me, especially during my style-formative teenage years, is one I still carry with me every day as a 27 year old, and that is to dress thoughtfully and with consideration to how those around me will perceive my selection.

If you want to fill the girl-next-door void convincingly, Ms. Cyrus, let's try a little more Mandy and a little less cleavage next time.

And the time after that, too.

Penelope to band -- "Meet you in the trailer!"

It's unfair, but there are some women who for whatever reason I can't look at without wishing they were in an evening gown.

My friend Olivia, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Angelina Jolie, Rachel Weisz and one of my perennial red carpet favorites, Penelope Cruz, all fit this bill -- all are women who quite honestly, to me, look out of place in anything other than a flutter-sleeved Alberta Ferretti, brushed silk Roberto Cavalli or webbed-chiffon Zac Posen. I realize this is just an unhealthy byproduct of my loving all things celebrity and all things high-fashion, but there it is. And there it has always been.

At 33, Penny is gorgeous, presumably single (we hear Josh Hartnett currently has the honor, but neither has confirmed), and should be going to a late-night John Mayer concert holding hands and making funny faces with the hiplicious Shakira. She should be wearing cute fitted jeans, sky-high stiletto heels, bare minimum makeup and have her hair pulled-back into a sexy-messy ponytail. And even though I um, was pretty sure with lady-bits like hers Penny would need some sort of upper-body unmentionable for locking-and-loading purposes, all I can say is good on her for pulling off what looks to me like a seriously successful challenge to Newton's law of gravity.

Surprisingly, I have no real judgment to pass after seeing these snaps. Penelope isn't a Mom setting a questionable example for her kids, she's not high on coke playing with hot half-Asians and sharp knives, and she's not Evan Rachel Wood. After the recalibration my standards for celebrity behavior underwent thanks to Paris Hilton and her infamous I-don't-want-to-eat-my-lima-beans! wail-face, Penny's trashy shirt, uncharacteristic as it may be, just doesn't make the criticism-cut this week.

I'd never wear it, even in L.A., even at my age, but perhaps my normally much snarkier judgment is just too distracted by how impressed I am Penelope was able to rock the shredded-back groupie tee support-free.

For more of Penny turned UVM co-ed (and Shakira looking like a 15 year old), see below:

Point. Game. Set. Match.

Thank you, Ms. Patricia Field.

Thank you for having Carrie wear "the naked dress" for her first official date with Mr. Big.

Thank you for your decision to have Charlotte don that pink strapless knee-length shift and Jackie-O sunglasses to Brady's first birthday party.

Thank you for Samantha's fleet of plunge-front, backless, come-and-get-me evening attire.

And finally, because I can't recall anything about Miranda's wardrobe that would elicit an-out-of-my-way expression of gratitude, I want to thank you for wearing this dress to the Britania Ball - an annual benefit to raise money for the New York City Opera aboard the ritzy Queen Mary 2 - in New York City last week.

Why, you ask?

By wearing for a second time in three months this too-tight, too-short, pink and black, looks-Missoni-but-I-hope-it's-not tube-dress with extended carpet-tassel skirt and a pair of whip-me-good dominatrix stilettos to a formal fundraiser, the famed "Sex and the City" costume designer proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was right not only to say implicit rules on age-appropriate and venue-appropriate dress exist but that these are rules to which we should cling long, hard and unwaveringly.

Look again -- unwaveringly.

Admittedly, this is an extreme example in every facet, including age, dress, event and expectation (I think it's only fair to hold a woman who's won multiple Emmys for her fashion sense to a higher standard), but sometimes it takes stretching the liberal "do-what-you-want-whenever-you-want" mantra to the very edge of exaggeration to get those last stragglers on-board the reason train.

And because I don't think it'd be very nice to leave you all on a negative note, not on a sunny Friday while I'm working from home in my jammies and you fools are stuck in twin-sets in cheap office chairs, here's an example of a woman right about Pat's age who's gotten the growing-old-gracefully groove down just right. Again.

Helen Mirren on the red carpet at last week's Cannes Film Festival

I've officially become my mother

With all the recent blowback I've received in my blogospheric life over my claim that there is indeed - or should be - a universally accepted set of rules when it comes to what an individual should, shouldn't, can or can't wear, I was honestly beginning to question my convictions. You might, too, if you had nearly a 10:1 ratio of "you're-what's-wrong-with-Washington-style!!" flung at you and your beliefs in setting what seemed to you like obvious venue-and-figure-appropriate boundaries.

But then, just as I was about to put fingertip to Word document in the form of a why-do-I-believe-what-I-believe? piece, I came across this picture of Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher and her daughter, Tallulah "Lulah" Willis at last night's Mr. Brooks premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood.

Aside from Ashton's unnecessary Bret Michaels 'do-rag, my first impression of the threesome was that they made a nice-looking bunch. Nothing tremendous, nothing traumatic, but somewhere in the middle. And just as I was about to click "back" to spend some quality time skipping Jessica Alba's highly annoying new InStyle interview but gazing upon the hot accompanying snaps, something hit me and I stopped short.

How old is Tallulah? 14? 15? Can't be, because Demi was pregnant with Scout in '91 (I remember like it was yesterday sitting on the Meijer floor in Traverse City, wide-eyed and big-dreamed, flipping through that Vanity Fair spread), and Tallulah is the youngest of the Willis girls. That must make her...12?

Well, I was close. She just turned 13 in February.

When I look at this picture (and those below), I can't say Lullah doesn't look fabulous, because frankly, she does. Her shoulders and birdlike limbs are perfect for the halter trapeze mini. Her hair is right at the equidistant point between coiffed and tousled, and her fierce posture - oh, the posture! - belies the fact that she's only been eligible to watch Mom get her bikini-bod on in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle for about two and a half months.

I know this is Hollywood, and I know kids there grow up quickly, especially those with three A-list movie star parents, but 12 and 13 year olds clearly braless in very adult-looking mini dresses? I just can't get on board. Not at a premiere, not at a party, not even if she wanted to dress up as Edie Sedgwick for Halloween. I have no groundbreaking explanation as to why I disapprove, but I suppose it all goes back to what my Mother told me when I begged her to let me trade-up to silk Victoria's Secret bikinis from my striped cotton Jockeys briefs back in 6th grade:

"Be a girl right now. Give yourself something to look forward to when you're a woman. You'll thank me."

So yes, in addition to venue and figure, I throw age into my setting-boundaries rulebook as well. Though for different reasons, seeing a minidress on a 13 year old is just as likely to elicit from me a pair of pursed lips and a slow, downward-looking head-shake as seeing one on a 43 year old. Sorry, Demi, you've got the gams, but you've also got a shorter hemline than your daughter. Not good.

For a couple more pics of Lullah wearing dresses (and heels) I wish I could've worn to my 8th grade dance but would never have passed the Mom-test, see below:

Mr. Brooks premiere (22 May 2007 - 13 years old)

Open Season premiere (9 September 2006 - 12 years old)

One other reason to love Georgetown

They may not raise their own children, they may treat waitresses and Kate Spade saleswomen like half-deaf servants out to steal their husbands, and they may have let their once-biting wit and knowledge of all things Thoreau, Emerson and Whitman - courtesy of Groton and Yale - lie fallow for decades while they planned their wedding, attended others, lunched, shopped and gossiped with "the girls," but yesterday afternoon, I realized one thing about Georgetown women that impressed me so much I may just have to give them a second chance:

Georgetown women are the queen bees of age-appropriate dress.

Let's be clear, when I say "Georgetown women," I'm not talking about the in-town-for-the-weekend bridge groupers in jean shorts and plaid bucket hats, the throngs of university chicks who walk four-across in matching Reef flip-flops and hold up everyone behind them while they decide whether to go to Urban Outfitters now or after they hit up the Body Shoppe, or even the Eurotrash contingent filing in and out of the neighborhood's Four Seasons and Ritz Carlton. No, when I refer to "Georgetown women," I'm talking about the elegant 40-and-up crowd who you know just by looking at them belong there. These women aren't carrying any shopping bags, they don't stop to peer into any store windows and they certainly aren't dressed in a function-over-fashion style.

But unlike so many aging women - Hollywood women, in particular (see 42 year old Teri Hatcher above woefully trying to look half her age at the Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End premiere yesterday in a skull-tank, skin-tight skinny jeans and platform slides) - who abide by an I-will-still-put-forth-effort attitude when it comes to daily dress, Georgetown women do so with the express understanding of the reality that there's fashion-over-function and then there's age-appropriate fashion-over-function.

The Georgetown women L and I took note of yesterday were all in heels - tall heels - but they were of a sleek, sophisticated ilk, not chunky-heeled Miu Miu resort pumps with buckles and raffia-trim or pink-and-red patent leather bow-adorned Marc Jacobs peeptoes. Their trousers were snug and exposed hints of hip and bottom contour. Their blouses were crisp, fitted and made of rich summer fabrics like cashmere-silk, high-thread-count Pima-soft cotton, seersucker and linen. Their dresses were tea-length and waist-cinched with nary a fabric-encased roll in sight. Tortoise-shell Jackie-O sunglasses, well-cared-for skin, both body and face, and animal-print-lined large totes with Laura Mercier compacts peeking out from within.

I'm aware most women my age and younger probably consider Georgetown women too conservative, too preppy and decidedly unsexy. That's fine with me. Those girls can have their Teri Hatchers, their Courtney Loves and their Sharon Stones.

In a word, Georgetown women are ladies, and I can only hope that one day I too will walk those cobblestone blocks in their fabulous heels.

Hooker chic: DC Prom Night 2007

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Why you don't let your little sister dress you

At first glance, I actually didn't hate this dress.

The more I looked at it, though, the more angles and closeups I clicked on, the more I realized, no, I didn't hate it but I didn't really like it, either. In fact, it wasn't like or dislike I was feeling, it was more...nostalgia. I'd had this reaction to a dress before. But which dress was it? Who wore it? When? The more I racked my celeb-saturated head for the answer, the farther that bit of stored information slipped somewhere in between my second favorite red carpet gown of all time (Natalie Portman in gunmetal Lanvin at the 2005 Oscars) and the lyrics to Lionel Richie's "Stuck on you."

So I took a break, ate my cherry Jell-o cup and two slices of double-anchovy thin-crust with light-cheese and light-sauce, read thesuperficial.com, then came back with a clearer head and a fuller tummy and took a second stab at it. No sooner had I turned on my standard he's-thinking-about-me-I-know-he-is Snow Patrol did it come to me.

The reaction I had to this rainbow-hued Hervé Léger-looking dress was the same one as when, at 10 years old while watching Pretty Woman for the first time, I fell in love with the blue-and-white lycra and stainless steel contraption Julia Roberts wore when she was on her knees unzipping Richard Gere's grey pinstripe suitpants in the penthouse suite at the Regent Beverly Wilshire.

Put simply, the super-tight, super-short, pole-dancer-heeled, 7th-grade-friendship-bracelet-ed ensemble Lindsay Lohan wore last night to a fete in her honor for being named Maxim Magazine's "hottest woman in the world" at NYC's Gansevoort Hotel is the kind of ensemble a little girl with no sense of fashion or understanding of what blowjob-for-a-twenty-wear looks like might pick out when asked the question, "Honey, which dress do you think the hottest woman in the world should wear to her big party?"

For more of Lindsay looking like the X-rated hybrid of Jem and Rainbow Brite, see the pictures below.

And I beg of you, unless you want to see the tragedy that is a 20 year old looking six months shy of Rue McClanahan, do NOT click on the close-up.

Now *this* is age-appropriate dress done right

This picture makes me happy. Really happy.

Three movie stars representing three very different age-groups - 70s, 40s and 20s - each one with as much sexiness and elegance as the other, none of whom are at all shy to show off how perfectly their enviable figures pour into their clothing, and all of whom abide by the so-often-bucked-in-Hollywood rules of age-appropriate dress.

The film for which Jane Fonda, Felicity Huffman and Lindsay Lohan were so well-dressed at last night's premiere may not be theater-worthy (or even on-Demand worthy), but if all that comes out of it is this pretty picture - a static reminder to aging women in Bethesda everywhere that it is far more attractive to flaunt your assets with flattering cuts, subtle hints of skin and the *perfect* fit than the short-n-tight-n-bare-everywhere look - it'd still be worth it.

Well played, ladies.

I've seen your future, Smith Pointers, and it ain't pretty.

Last night was a night of firsts for me.

I made my first trip to the Ralph Lauren store in Bethesda.

I attended my first non think-tank book launch.

I tried - and promptly abandoned - my first sip of Ketel One lemonade.

I girl-crushed on my first author (Jill Kargman, at right).

And finally, finally, I left a party with my first bag of real swag.

But among all that good, among all the delicious displays of structured crocodile doctor's bags, linen slip dresses and patent leather d'Orsay peeptoes, believe it or not, was an overwhelming, inescapable tragedy.

Shockingly, no, I'm not referring to the bizarre Wet Seal-like collection of full-length sand-blasted denim bustier jumpers ($895), rhinestone-lettered message tees ($195 each) or the dressy metallic brocade culottes ($595). And painful as they were to look at, I'm not even talking about the pair of girls who decided last night was the night to quite literally test the limit of Michael Stars' one-size-fits-all label by stuffing their size 12 frames into his signature clingy knits.

It took my companion R and me two flutes of Veuve each and a half-hour of "No, it's not that, maybe it's..." conversation before finally, flush up against the faux fireplace and adjacent to the 36-inch Sharp Aquos flat-screen lush with images of the most recent Black Label ready-to-wear runway collection, we realized our malcontent was not something to be located, nor was it something to be contained. Frankly, it couldn't have been located or contained. Not easily, anyway, because the tragedy was not only to our left and to our right but it was surrounding the perimeter of every room and in bunches of threes and fours on the staircase; it was at the bar affectionately calling me "darling girrrl" and inquiring as to where I bought my ruffled silk halter; it was in the bathroom invading my personal space and enthusiastically fawning over my short black nails; and it was at the raffle table awkwardly leaning on the closest thing it could find - in this case, me - pulling up the slack on its four-inch lucite-wedged slingbacks while simultaneously cooing at a 5 cocktail octave to anyone who would listen how it "simply uh-DORED" this season's Calypso resort wear.

It was everywhere, just as likely to be in that conversation as this one, just as inclined to try on this article of clothing as that one, and just as likely, from behind, to look as much like a co-ed as a Georgetown University sophomore.

The tragedy, as you might have guessed, was the all too common suburban affliction known as older women desperately - and I mean, desperately - trying to pass themselves off as women 10, 15, even 25 years their junior.

To be fair, I should make clear that the majority of the 35-55 year old women at last night's party certainly had the figures to be pulling off the Lacey Parker blousant mini dress and bejeweled Giuseppi Zanotti t-strap stiletto sandals look. No doubt about it. When I reach their ages, I can only hope to have as toned and lean a frame as their ladies-who-lunch lives have afforded them. In addition to their sick bodies, most of these women - most notably a prominent senator's wife, a well-known pregnant cable news anchor and the pregnant wife of a well-known cable news anchor - were also objectively stunning women. Gorgeous well-rested skin, flawless only-there-to-enhance makeup, shiny movie star hair -- no feature, no accessory, no stitch of cosmetic had been left untended to, uncared for or was included or applied without the premeditation of a comprehensive cost-benefit analysis.

Except, of course, just about every article of clothing they were wearing.

I couldn't believe the hemlines, the prints, the necklines and the trendy and embarrassingly blatant tips-of-the-hat to Fergie and Lindsay in which these middle-aged women were indulging. If I had put forth the effort, I'm pretty sure I could have counted upwards of two dozen Intermix minidresses in look-at-me colors, three of which were sported Tori-Spelling-style over third-trimester bumps. I'll be the first to say I don't believe in specific, you-can't-wear-this-and-you-can't-wear-that fashion rules. I'll also step up and admit I know firsthand the personal satisfaction to be gained from sharing with the world the fruits of your hard-earned gym labor. But still, still, there is a world of difference between that which a 26 year old with a killer body and that which a 46 year old with a killer body should be wearing.

At any age - 20s, 30s, 40s and beyond - adhering to some semblance of age-appropriate dress needs to be as highly ranked a priority as dressing to fit your frame and dressing for your audience.

Because even with the kindest disposition, the most killer wit, the prettiest face and the most fantastic pair of 60-minutes-on-the-elliptical-six-days-a-week gams, if you're one of these older women intent on bringing Smith Point style to the 'burbs, no one is going to focus on all your good -- they'll be too busy choking back pity.

The promising Spears trade-up

Showing up at Saturday's Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards tan, toned, and looking more than a shade shy of her 21st rather than her 16th birthday, Britney's little sis Jamie-Lynn is doing her part to help ease the pain for all of her sister's fans who are running out of love, support and feasible excuses for her now paunchy, inked and twice divorced older sibling.

By not spending her days ignoring her children, shopping, mocking substance rehabilitation and trying to pull one over us with hat-attached hair (see here, here and most unfortunately, here), Jamie-Lynn is making being a Spears look pretty damn good. I used to feel sorry for J-L. After all, up until 2004, she faced filling a pretty impressive pair of bejeweled wedged flip-flops. But fast-forward three years, and how that tide it done turned.

In any other city, in any other industry, I'd say this tangerine empire-waisted strapless number by Foley + Corinna was a bit too Kir Royale of a cocktail dress for a 15 year old, but the fact is, it's Hollywood, it's a movie and television awards show, and this is the sister of a girl who, at 18, performed Stronger on-stage in front of 20,000 adolescent girls and their fathers in a pair of fluorescent pink hot pants with matching halter-bra, cowboy boots and cowboy hat. And by "performed" I mean lip-sync, occasionally letting out a live "Uuuuhhh yeeeah, baaaay-beh!" while eating a Blue-Razz blow-pop and writhing on a stripper pole. I'm not going to lie, it changed my life, but still, this is not the kind of style star you want living in the bedroom next door to then 8 year old Jamie-Lynn.

By some miracle, even though they both had contact with the man-boy at fault for Britney's getting fat and sucking, the skank germ seems not to have osmotically transferred to the more ladylike, prettier offspring of Jamie and Lynn, now divorced (a decision I'm convinced is in part due to their realization of how stupid it was to name their child after themselves, hyphen notwithstanding). How else could we explain a relative of this choosing a pair of color-complementing age-appropriate Twelfth Street by Cynthia Vincent two-inch bronze peeptoes ($334 at revolveclothing.com), classy 23K yellow gold shredded Sam Bradley chain and what has got to be the best eye makeup and sleek hair a Spears has ever seen?

It's clear to me -- the baby Jesus decided to spare this one. And we are ever thankful for his merciful act.

My only constructive pieces of criticism would be to lay off the tanning and vamoose those too-big, too-gaudy hoops.

Otherwise, I think we have ourselves a seriously promising Spears trade-up.

Poise first, Prada second, then everything else.

Though I really didn't have much of an opportunity to take in the Anne-Hathaway-lookalikes with perfectly coiffed bangs and short nails polished with whatever color is most in vogue I normally see in droves on the Upper West Side, I did see one woman who, had I not been wearing patterned tights, would have literally knocked my socks off.

She was a bit homelier and a bit older than the women who typically stop me in my tracks. She was perhaps mid-40s, maybe even early-50s given her enormous shopping bag from La Prairie, but in her case, it wasn't about her beauty, her age, her statuesque figure, her Diddy-sized diamond studs, or even her charcoal double-breasted boatneck waist-cinched Prada coat -- a coat I've wished for on four separate 11:11 occasions since I saw Kelly Ripa wear it to her interview with Dave Letterman last month.

Her upmarket trappings were hard not to be impressed by, but it was much more her dignified walk, her air of contentedness and the calm ease with which she navigated through the throngs of cold, cranky New Yorkers - in tall, skinny heels, no less - that made her stand out from among the other well-dressed women fortunate enough to be shopping at 3:15 on a weekday afternoon.

I'd heard over and again melodramatic fashion experts chide women for letting their clothes wear them, not them wearing their clothes, but it wasn't until yesterday, until I actually saw firsthand what it looked like when a woman owned a busy sidewalk with her air of confidence alone, that I finally understood what they meant by this.

DC is filled with accomplished female lawyers, lobbyists, politicos and academics, but very few - none, in fact, I've encountered - could've held a Vie Luxe City 3-wick to this woman who probably spent the better part of her life "lunching," spa-ing, and helping Barneys salespeople exceed their monthly commission goals.

"How is this possible?" I thought to myself as I watched her pause in front of and then enter the Stuart Weitzman boutique in the Time Warner building.

On my return home, between reading my Betty and Veronica Double Digest and shooting are-you-'effing-serious? looks at the man whose left hip was unapologetically 2/3 into my seat, I thought about this question. Flush up against the cold metal siding with no sign of relief in sight, I turned to the soothing sound of Mandy Patinkin for temper deescalation. Serendipitously, it was in his glorious remake of the Les Miserables classic, "I Dreamed a Dream," that I had a revelation.

"There are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather. I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living, so different now from what it seemed, now life has killed the dream I dreamed."

Most women in DC whom I've met place primacy on their careers and eventually, split themselves - not just their time but themselves - between their jobs and their families. Gone are the personal dreams of self-improvement through "me" friendships (i.e. not just those borne out of your carpool group and neighborly get-togethers), "me" reflection, and yes, even "me" physical maintenance. I'm not talking about the occasionally penciled-in massage or a once-every-two-months girls' lunch, I'm talking about the daily "me" time that used to occur out of instinct, not when-I-can-find-the-time convenience.

From what people who have families and/or highly demanding jobs tell me, the personal sacrifice is worth it. At this point, on the cusp of entering into virgin late-twenties territory, I'm not sure I think it is.

If it's at the cost of being as slim as I hope to always be, fine.

If it's at the cost of having less time to discover new vintage stores, fine.

If it's at the cost of a full-makeup routine in the mornings, fine. Really.

But if it's at the cost of losing the way I carry myself, losing touch with what made me me five years ago, ten years ago, I'm not sure I'm willing to sacrifice that.

Granted, I don't know the life journey of this striking New York City woman. For all I know, she too might be a career woman, one so successful she's allowed to leave her office early on a Friday to do some "light shopping"; she might be that lucky brand of woman who belted out six kids without affecting her boyishly thin hips; she might even be one of the DC women I described above who just decided to take a daytrip on the Acela to pick up some items she couldn't find in our fair city.

Either way, seeing her on the street yesterday brought on this realization for me: there will always only be 24 hours in every day and 48 hours in every weekend. It's going to be impossible to achieve everything and be everything we want and to keep dreaming of new goals and thinking of new roles to pursue without losing something on the other end. At some point, if we choose the big things - the big career, wealth, a family - we risk becoming different people.

For those of us who love ourselves the way we currently are, that sounds more like a threat than a tempting adventure.

All I know is that no matter what age I am, no matter what city I'm in, no matter if I'm a stay-at-home Mom, a China analyst or writing for Marie Claire, no matter if I'm wearing an Ann Taylor coat or a Prada coat, I want to own a sidewalk just like she did.

You can call me superficial, you can call me selfish - both are often true - but that's a dream I'm not willing to let go of. Not for anything.