She's wearing tunics now

The good folks at McSweeney's just published this hilarious excerpt from Wendi Aarons' latest book, "I'm Wearing Tunics Now: On Growing Older, Better, and a Hell of a Lot Louder." Here are some gems:

The word "tunic" most likely means something in another language, like Greek or Latin, but who gives a shit because in English, "tunic" means "suddenly, shopping at Chico's doesn't seem so gross anymore." Because much like death, Jesus, or one of those square buzzy things they use at the Chili's hostess stand, the tunic knows when your time has come. And baby, your time will come.

Now that I'm wearing tunics, I've thrown away the regular shirts that have suppressed me my entire life. Regular shirts are straightjackets. Corsets. Regular shirts conceal nothing. Torso, upper arms, hips, all of that bullshit is displayed in a regular shirt, like slabs of ham in a deli case. But in my tunic? In my tunic, you can't see any of the middle part of my middle-aged body. I'm shrouded in mystery. I'm a stylish enigma. I'm a greying fortune cookie with a fortune inside it that says, "Fuck you, I was in shape in the eighties."

And perhaps my favorite:

In my tunic, I'm the Man Behind the Curtain. No, the Woman Inside the Curtain. And nobody knows what's going on inside the curtain. It hides every secret. Did I just do two thousand sit-ups, or did I just eat an entire Boston cream pie I found in the back of the freezer? Is my lower back bare, or is it inked in a regrettable tramp stamp that says "American Skank" in Chinese characters? Am I an apple bottom or a kumquat bottom? Is my stomach untouched, or is it covered in leeches because of some stupid holistic thing I'm testing out for my idiot brother-in-law Gary's new "wellness center"? Nobody knows. Nobody cares. Nobody can even imagine. Why? Because I'm wearing motherfucking tunics now.

Wendi Aarons argues that "The tunic comes for all" and "When you're a woman over forty, a tunic wears you." I'm definitely in the correct tunic demographic. However, instead of tunics, I've found myself drawn to coveralls. Same sentiment, just a different outward expression. I'm wearing motherfucking coveralls now!