When did I become that woman?

I ran errands this morning. I needed to return a dress that was a bad impulse buy, pick up paper towels and grab some anti-wrinkle cream now that I am a woman of a certain age (never have figured out what that age is). And just as I stepped out of my car, I had an epiphany: I was one of those women.

No, not one of those women. The other kind. The type who run errands in lose-fitting sweat pants, old t-shirts and no make-up. Standing in Target's parking lot, I realized I was one pair of polyester stretch pants away from becoming the woman my high school friends and I swore we'd never be.

All I needed were the curlers in my hair.

How did that happen?

While I admit I've never been one to fuss over my looks--a spot of blush, some mascara and I'm good to go--I really don't want to bring teenage girls to whispers of "there but for the power of Smashbox go I."

I will never again want to go out looking like a refuge from Odd Lots.

But don't expect me to transform into a Housewife of Dallas, who won't go to the mailbox without full makeup and heels on. Not only would that be over-dressed for the mailbox, it would be overkill for Target. After all, I was the only one in the store this morning not wearing a baseball cap.

Wait, does that mean I'm the only one who showered and shampooed before venturing out? Heaven help me, but I hope I never become one of those types.