Sunday, 29 November 2009 at 21:51
You probably have noted that I have posted this in the “fashion, style, and shopping” category – for those of you that know me, this seems ironic.
That’s because it is.
I have arrived at a conclusion about myself lately that I am not so sure I’m crazy about. I’m a fashion victim. Not in the traditional sense of the word, mind you – I mean, I am victimized by things that compromise my own personal sense of style. I am the queen of wardrobe malfunctions, the empress of what not-to-wear…all without any consciousness until it’s too late.
Last week stands out as a stunning example. I’m obligated to take Abbey to this birthday party, the birthday party of a classmate from the RIGHT side of the tracks. I agonize over what I’m going to wear (tibetan fisherman pants? My birks? Perhaps my really cool sweater vest that Angela keeps trying to hide from me BUT I FIND IT ANYWAY!!!?), and decide that I am really putting too much effort into this.
I mean, seriously, since when have I been THAT girl? I’m the mom that wears camo shorts and a tube top to Abbey’s graduation. I’m the mom that stumbles into the school half-conscious in my jammies. I’m the mom that’s still got legs – and wears mini-skirts. P-SHAW! It’s all good.
(I don’t truly believe this, I’m actually struggling with my 30 year old self esteem right now, I got a haircut I hate – with BANGS – and my clothing bears the scars of spit up and breastfeeding. And compulsive use of bleach.)
So off to the party I go – Bianca’s mom (another PWT mommy like me, but better dressed with a way better haircut) drops off the girls, so all I have to do is pick them up.
I should have known when I pulled into the parking lot that I should run the other direction. My subaru (it’s an outback, and I love it…) looks very out of place in this group. There are, I swear to GOD I’m not exaggerating) at least ten GRAY mini-vans. All new, all shiny…I mean, did these people all go shopping together? Is this for REAL? My car even knew better, and stalled before it parked. I suspect it had an omen of what I was about to encounter.
Indefatigable. That’s what I am. I cannot be deterred. My mission is to go in there, bad haircut and all, and show THEM that I am cooler than them. Tattoos, baby sling, birkenstocks and all. So I sling up my trusty baby, and tell Fisher (aka “Spiderman the pirate” today, as he is wearing his spidey t-shirt and arm tattoos, an eye-patch, and carrying a bag of gold) to get out. We’re going in.
When I enter the building, I have to look in the mirror to check myself against the shock that resonates through the room. Where is my COACH purse? What the hell kind of pants am I wearing? And who let ME in here? My skin isn’t green, and I seem to be in possession of all of my clothes. I charge ahead.
The only place to sit, of course, is in the front row – in front of these people who I am pretty sure are burning holes into the back of my head from behind their MAC-mascara laden eyelashes.
I’m chanting to myself – I’m cool.
And there I sit, watching the kids run around the gymnastics center, my heart pounding and my ears red. Why do I care that they’re not speaking to me? Why is this bothering me? I clearly needed a tube top in this situation…or a bong hit. I’m not sure…but in any event, with neither of those weapons at my disposal, I’m stuck here. Make the best of it.
The party is finally over when the mother of the party princess comes up and says hi and introduces herself. I note her impossibly perfect nails, freshly manicured, her fancy jeans, her expensive shoes, and her 200 dollar hair-do. She whitens her teeth, which gleam so distractingly I can’t seem to make out her words. I thank her for inviting Abbey to the party, and she gushes about what a sweetheart my daughter is.
Now I’m convinced she’s got the wrong mom.
So I thank her, and stand to get the girls together, rein in spider-pirate, and pull up my jeans, that have once again fallen half down my ass crack. Abbey walks up right about the same time, with a horrified look on her face. “MOM!” she whispers hysterically.
I see the look on her face, and it registers that something must be very wrong with the baby, happily slung on my hip in his tie-dye and legwarmers. I check him, and he seems fine…
“What?” I ask, with some amount of concern…
“Your BACK! What’s on YOUR BACK?”
What is on my back? What is she talking about? I strain to look around, and all I can see is something very closely resembling BUZZ LIGHTYEAR wings, attached to my sling. To my dismay, this new attachment gives me nothing but the power of the pariah. I’m a complete embarassment to myself, and my kid, at the preppy party. I am wearing the sunshade from my car, the PINK FLOWERED sunshade that Angela and I poke fun at because we bought it without knowing what it looked like unrolled. Right now, it is about halfway unrolled and attached perfectly to the middle of my back, where everyone has been staring at it, and NO ONE has mentioned its presence.
FUCKERS! I’m mortified in a way that I don’t remember being since…middle school? I mean, can my already fragile ego withstand this assault? Why couldn’t it have been…my nipple!? A SUNSHADE?
I extract the sunshade through a series of contortions, and cannot make my retreat fast enough.
Why do these things happen to me? Is something cosmic trying to tell me I need to learn humility? Is some relentless force trying to drive me into complete agoraphobia?
I don’t know. Poor Abbey. She’s in for a rough ride.
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