You know your wardrobe has slipped a little too far into the let's-just-all-live-in-spandex-running-clothes-all-the-time realm when your husband, who hasn't ventured into a clothing shop alone since before Kurt Cobain died, brings you a shopping bag full of things he picked up for you on his lunch hour.

Take it from me, you shouldn't let it get this far. First because spandex shrinks. And two because now you've got a shopping bag full of clothes that your husband picked out, and you have to negotiate which pair of shorts cut up to THERE and tops cut down to THERE you can exchange without hurting his feelings.

And while my loving groom may have gotten a wee bit exuberant in his choices, I have to concede his point. Things had run off the rails, and my cleavage hadn't seen the light of day since, well, maybe ever. We writers aren't particularly known for sexing it up. But when your husband buys you hot pants, you damn well better do something.

So there I was in American Apparel. Having recently turned 28, I was easily the oldest. least tattooed and tragically uncoolest person in residence. I was also on a mission. I skipped the gold lamé leggings and the neon unitards - being just old enough to remember when "Let's Get Physical" was on the radio and not being inclined to relive it - but I loaded up on all the form-fitting tank tops, flimsy v-necks and yes, even dresses I could carry and trudged past the painfully hip sales associate into the dressing room.

I tried every last bit of it on and, after a few size adjustments, took the entire pile and plopped it down in front of the cash register. "Break out the big bag. I'm taking it all."

Look out, ladies. It's a whole new day, and the boobies are coming out to play.

A little bit. Kinda-sorta. There's some cleavage. No, really. Look, there. No, there. See in this light you can kinda -

Alright, I'm trying. It's a work in progress, dammit.