Someone in the comments on something last week casually mentioned crop tops are “for people who haven’t had a job yet.” Like anything revealed while doomscrolling, it shouldn’t have gotten to me, but it did, right down to actually sitting up in bed. On the flip side I’ve heard the opposing polemic plenty of times; lady on TikTok in her mid-fifties preaching about how age is a construct and midriffs don’t expire. Sounds great! Fun! Body positivity! Until you find yourself staring down your own inadequacies in a fluorescent lit changing room having a mini crisis. I don’t believe either for a second. The former is snobbery masquerading as helpful style tips and the latter is very easy to say if you’re not the person left standing in the shop holding the problem dress. I’m thirty five, I’ve never owned a crop top (not even in the 2Ks when literally everyone owned one) and I found myself spending far too much mental energy this week trying to actually work out where I stand on it once and for all. No more performing an opinion on the internet, just the plain truth as it stands for me right now.
The Body Thing, Which Somehow Isn’t Really About Your Body
This is the thing I worked out (took me way too long mind): the reason I’ve been hesitating wasn’t actually about my body. My stomach. I tricked myself into thinking it was for years, built up this elaborate rationale about how my proportions wouldn’t work for a crop top, but when I actually tried one on, stood in front of my mirror and looked, that story fell apart faster than you can say “diet culture.” What I was actually scared of was being perceived differently, worried about being seen as trying too hard for someone of my age. Which isn’t really a question of if I can wear a crop top, but a question of how to rock one convincingly enough that those kind of gatekeepers don’t get when to butt out of your wardrobe decisions. And honestly, that’s way more annoying to get past than “do I have the abs for this” because let’s be real you can’t diet your way out of someone else’s head. My mum even schooled me on it when I was moping about the conundrum; “well you’ve got the stomach for it Jen, you’ve just never had the nerve.” Hurt exactly as much as she intended and, maddeningly, also not remotely wrong.
Another little slice of this fundamental issue nobody talks about is that crop tops aren’t one style, they’re about six styles sloped under the same banner. The gap between “cropped right above your waistband, doesn’t really reveal anything” and “cropped to your bra line, full midriff exposure, basically made for festivals” is huge. I’d been blocking on the festival version the whole time which is why trying one on felt like such a weighted decision, when in actuality the version that sits almost atop your waistband is less a crop top and more a slightly shorter oversized shirt. Once I separated them both in my brain the whole question felt a lot smaller, a lot less like a life-or-death situation than it had when marinating in my own imagination for the past ten years. It wasn’t “am I too old for crop tops” on reflection, it was “am I too old for that specific style of crop top” and the answer to that narrower, honest question was: of course not, duh. Because realistically it never was about age.
The Actual Practical Bit, When We Thought This Was Going To Be All Feelings
Get past the whole identity crisis and existential dread bit and the rest is actually way more simple than any of the above drama makes it sound. It also turned out to be cheaper than all the mental gymnastics too. One I bought online, eleven dollars, from my local charity shop I browse every other Saturday near my flat, boxy cut, hits squarely at my waistband and it’s since had one wear so far; under a button up shirt, left open. Which yes, I know, cheating blah blah but stay with me because that actually is the entire trick nobody talks about. You don’t have to cut full-wise to your bra on day one. You can layer them up, half hide the point of buying one in the first place and still reap the benefits of the cut and proportion without feeling like you need to flash every last inch. If that’s easing yourself in slowly, heck no, I don’t think that’s chickenshen. I think that’s actually how most people end up wearing things they once thought they couldn’t.
The second lesson, and the one that actually changes the numerical value of how cropped anything can realistically be for me is what you wear it with. Pair that sucker with high waisted jeans and it hangs differently, feels more intentional than anything slashed mid-rise or lower. An inch, maybe two of stomach showing when it’s tucked into a high waisted something feels like a look, feels curated and planned, but throw a low rise bottom on and you’ve got a whole different beast. That’s not a decision I’m ready to make yet. Not sure if I ever will be, honestly don’t care. Texture is also kind of important here I think, more than anything else I wear. A boxy crop in a stiff fabric stands away from the body; it looks structured, almost architectural. That same crop top, but in a tight jersey looks like, well you know. Lower, sluttier. And I think those are two very different garments that take someone with very different levels of nerve to pull off. Mine’s a heavy cotton, bit on the boxier side and that’s doing half the work for me right now that I didn’t realize until I had it on.
So. Where do I come down on the issue? Totally not on team “crop tops are for people who haven’t had a job yet, dear.” Please let my thighs get slack enough to reach that level of gatekeeping. But also not over here chanting “age is just a construct” either. Both extremes miss the useful bit of the conversation which is: it matters what version you go for. And pretending it doesn’t will just leave you frustrated at buying the wrong kind and never wanting to wear it, let alone experiment more. The truth, the advice I wish I could’ve told myself at twenty five instead of spent a decade pretending not to care about, is that twenty five wasn’t too old. Thirty five isn’t either. At least not for anything except maybe that festival version slit all the way down to your bare bra. And even that’s not a hard no from me, just a “not yet.”
$11 in my bank account, one successful outing under my belt, and currently sitting pretty firmly on team “fuck off I like them” over here.
