Dusters -- like muumuus -- defy conventional clothing categories. They are fit for neither street nor sleep, falling into that great gray clothing abyss that makes them suitable mostly for moments alone while working one's way through a quart of Ben and Jerry's. I personally promised myself I would never own one. They were way too ordinary for someone as cool as I. Of course, that promise was made before my bikini underwear started impairing my circulation, so no one can really blame me for going back on my word. I can now claim oxygen deprivation.

 Yes, the dreaded dusters of which I speak are constructed of  materials high in polyester content and in an array of colors and patterns more at home with ink blot tests than high fashion. The basic premise governing duster design has not changed in about 50 years, give or take a decade: shapelessly falling to the most unflattering part of the feminine leg, dusters sport pockets the size of  Kentucky in which the wearer can stash her winter's supply of food. Uh, wait a minute, that's not a duster, that's a chipmunk. But if you think about it, dusters are kind of like chipmunks in a strange sort of way -- you don't really give either of  them much thought unless you come face to face with one. 

 And there I was, standing in Wal-Mart, face to face with a whole rack of dusters, searching for (can I bring myself to admit it?) -- a pretty one.

 Yes, you heard me right: I said a pretty one. And looking for a pretty duster is like trying to find a tall midget or a fat prima ballerina or a man who takes out the garbage as soon as you ask him to or a child who doesn't leave dirty underwear on the bathroom floor or...well, you get the picture. Searching for a pretty duster is a job only Diogenes could appreciate and, since I'd sworn never to own one, the question of why I'm rummaging through a stack of dusters is a valid one. And so is my answer: Although once built for speed, I am now relegated to the comfort zone and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

 So, with a shopping cart teeming with cat food , bananas and socks, I stood in the store's lingerie department thumbing through the dusters, feeling the material so I could find one of the better quality polyester blends. Soon my eyes fell upon a rack of nighties made of cellophane, adorned with feathers and paired with tiny little thongs. And something nudged my hibernating memory to life, which caused it to slog around a bit, awakening certain parts of my brain that up until that moment I thought were dead.

 Yes, I'm sure I owned one of those see-through nighties back when I was smaller than a Volkswagen bus. I still have the memory tucked in the corner of my mind, right next to all the other flotsam, jetsam and platform shoes of my youth. Flotsam --  such as being able to read without having to look over the top of my glasses; jetsam --  like not needing a crane to return to an upright position after bending down to pick up something.

 Also jammed in back there are three-inch heels and frosted lipstick and pantyhose that don't hold in your stomach. Like most of my contemporaries, I've turned a corner, leaving all these things behind. It's not really as sad as it sounds. I've always hated high heels and I like nighties that don't require me to suck in my gut to wear them. And even though I swore a youthful oath not to allow dusters into my life out of fear I would soon be sporting pink plastic rollers and mules, I am probably going to buy one because I know it's all a lie: We're not getting better, just older.

 And if you don't believe me, swap that duster for a thong and see for yourself.