Passing the torch . . .

Nothing like a trip to the mall to define the lines of generations. I promised Katie, age 20, and Kaity, soon to be 13, that I would buy them each a new outfit. Kaity, because school is starting soon and as one of three grandmothers, it is my responsibility, nay, my pleasure to spoil her. Katie, because some time after twelve noon tomorrow, will be missing four wisdom teeth and the prospect is daunting. Heck, if I could afford it, I would buy the kid a whole new wardrobe for going the distance with the oral surgeon. But I digress.

Hollister calls like a siren to girls between 12 and 21. I don't know if it is the dark mystic interior, the ingratiating aroma of their signature scent or the loud pulsing music, but the place is a teen magnet. Oh wait, could it possibly be the incredibly Ralph Lauren-esque male counter help drenched in pheromones, casually but conspicuously draped among the racks of clothing?

Katie has no problem. She is a pro at rifling through the stacks and zeroing in on the perfect little lacy top. One down, one to go . . . . Kaity, is more hesitant, savoring all the colors, sizes and styles. Armed with several choices she heads for the dressing room. Items one, two and three are immediately dismissed. She opens the door to display option number four and I can see Katie's eyebrows rise off her face that split second before she looks at me to see how long it will take me to nix the obvious lack of fabric on the bodice. She is right. And as my brain falters and sputters, trying to reshape the words, HELL NO, into something a little more appropriate, she comes to my rescue and suggests a tank to be worn under the offending garment. Yay Katie. She saved the day and both girls are happy.

On to that bastion of student delight . . . American Eagle. This I know is going to be harder, having just been through one aborted search for the perfect jeans with Katie the previous Friday. No less than eleven pairs had been pronounced unacceptable before, knowing her frustration tolerance was peaking to unacceptable levels; we had beaten a hasty retreat from Buckles. Amazingly, pair three in AE was a match made in heaven. Whew! Kaity, meanwhile was waffling between two pairs of shorts and a skirt. This time I must have missed Katie's warning eyebrow because I could hear her slightly raised voice telling Kaity, "No way! Mom wouldn't even let ME wear them that short." To which Kaite replied, "My mom let me buy a skirt this short just last week." And turning to me in distress, urged me to call her mom and confirm. Call I did . . . only to be told to use my judgment, which loosely translated means, 'I may have goofed but if you let her get another one, I can blame you when Kaity's dad raises the roof.' Much to my Katie's dismay, I agreed to let Kaity try on the offending slip of material telling her she had to pass both the 'bend over' and the 'sit down' test. I could see the steam wafting from Katie's ears. What had happened to the fuddy duddy who had ruled over her clothing choices at that age???? Thankfully, Kaity opted for one of the two pairs of shorts and the world as we know it is saved once again from the storm cloud that would have been Katie AND the tornado that would have been Kaity's dad had she come home with that tiny smattering of fabric. Kaity, herself, was still stinging from his pronouncement that he was not allowing her to date until she was at least his 40 something vintage. Man, I could have told her that was coming.

So there I am, realizing that the rules for each generation do indeed change. I discovered that yes; I probably would have allowed my granddaughter to buy something I would not have allowed my daughter to wear at that age. As this tidbit sunk in, with still smoldering looks from Katie, I realized that in truth, I had merely passed being the keeper of modesty onto the shoulders of the next generation. I had enough to worry about with Katie. Craig could handle Kaity.