One day, I will reach into the back of my closet and pull out a bag full of motivation. With it, I will jump into the world of magazine publishing and target "women of a certain age."

For those who do not know, the term "women of a certain age" means old baggers, like me —- the over-45 ladies-in-waiting to join AARP.

Why a magazine? Well, there is a dearth of publications offering fashion for women who are not in the coveted 20-35 age range. Once a woman hits 45, the old Romulan/Klingon cloaking device takes over. That means "invisible," for you non-Trekkies.

When was the last time you opened Vogue or Cosmo and saw a bunch of models over 45? The answer is: Never. Even those silly hairstyle magazines are full of photos of youngsters; I found none with a page of realistic and trendy hairdos for women who wash the gray out every six weeks. Why not? We exist. And we need fashionable hair, by golly, even if it is silver at the roots.

I think there would be a huge market for this type of magazine. There are other women like me, women who enjoy reading about recipes and homemade curtains, but still wonder, "Am I too old to wear ballet flats, and if not, can I wear them with a pair of wool socks? And if I have to go sock-less, will my feet stick to the shoes when I have a hot flash?" Or: "Am I too old for skinny jeans and kitten-heeled boots?"

There should be a magazine to answer these scintillating inquiries.

I love the new styles, but I don't want to be one of those women —- the ones who dress like a 20-something even though they have the body of a 40-something. Heather Locklear can get away with that, but for most of us, dressing from the junior department is not an option.

I know, I know. Go to the women's department. Yeah, right. Have you been to the women's department? I'll shop in the women's department when I'm 70 —- maybe. Right now, I'm still shy of 50 and kicking and screaming every step of the way.

The problem is that I'm too old for the junior department and too young for the women's. The misses department is just smaller sizes of the old lady stuff. Surely there is a happy medium. I believe the misses department is supposed to be the happy medium, but I find it to be just, well, medium.

Not being a true fashionista, these sorts of dilemmas never used to plague me, but that was back in the days when even a fashion faux pas looked cute on me. Those days are gone, baby, gone. I have bypassed cute and landed flat on my butt in the Land of Pretty-Freaking-Old.

There was a time when I was a regular shopper in the junior department. My daughters loved it, and not just because they enjoy laughing at, er, with me. But over the last year, my body and the junior department came to a harsh parting of the ways.

I tried on one of those baby doll tops that are so popular right now. (I love those things. I used to wear them all the time in the '70s.)

It was adorable. It was soft and flowing. It was colorful. It was —-hideous. I looked like the recipient of a biblical miracle. In a word: pregnant. I actually screamed and jumped away from the mirror. The baby doll top went back on the hanger and out the door. I was so distraught, it required a caramel macchiato, two espresso brownies and a new pair of shoes to calm me down.

What is an aging shopper to do? My fashion sense is no better now than it was when I was 20. I'd rather be comfy than chic, but I don't want to look like a slob, either. So where are the magazines that show age-appropriate trendy alternatives to evil baby doll tops? The world is full of females, and not all of them are between the ages of 13 and 35.

Fashion Central? Hollywood? Are you listening?

So now I'm back to my original statement. I want to publish a magazine. I have decided to call it "Women of a Certain Age." Classy, to the point, and perfect for old baggers like myself who want to look fresh, not foolish.

Now, if I can just find that bag of motivation. I think it may be in the junior department quivering beneath a baby doll top and a pair of ballet flats.

In the meantime, I decided to answer my own questions:

First, I'll wear ballet flats with or without socks, whichever I choose. I'm old enough to make that decision for myself. Right?

Second, skinny jeans and kitten-heeled boots will be fine as long as my saddlebags stay in hiding and my bunion doesn't get crushed by the pointy-toed boot.

I'll decide if comfort trumps fashion or vice versa on a case-by-case basis.

There. This Woman of a Certain Age has spoken.

Maybe this fashion stuff isn't so hard after all.

Lisa Ricard Claro is a freelance writer who lives with her family in Lawrenceville. She also has written for "Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul" (May 2007) and has a monthly column, "In the Buff," at www.SanityCentral.com. You may e-mail Lisa at: lisaricardclaro@bellsouth.net.