A day to honor me, Mommy Dearest, is nice and all but it really isn’t nearly enough to get the job done so I decided to extend the run of Mother’s Day to the whole weekend.
“You take whatever time you need,” David offered magnanimously. That was Friday morning.
On Saturday afternoon, while I sat in the chair of Arrojo studio, waiting for my highlights to soak into my hair and reading People, it was a different story.
“So what’s going on?” David asked on the phone, none too kindly, “When should we expect you back?”
In the background, Primo screamed that something was “ALL YOUR FAULT DADDY!” Seconda wailed her interminable wail.
“Well, I have a haircut after this and then I was going to do a little shopping,” I said, “But if you need me ---“
”No, forget it, we don’t need you,” said David curtly, “SECONDA DO NOT PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!”
Then the phone went dead.
My first reaction was rage at David for hanging up on me. My second response was fear for the life of my two young children under his care.
Rather than opt for either of these, I decided to laugh. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho! Because I was free!! And all the shit hitting the fan on the other end of the phone was totally not my problem.
I let out a hearty chuckle and got back to the important business of reading why Kirstie Alley has recently gained 83 pounds.
With a golden head of bouncy hair, I sashayed down 7th Avenue, feeling like a hot number. Popped into Loehmann's -- why not? -- and spent a whole hour happily shopping for clothes. But here’s where things took a turn.
I feel I need to get into this issue now, because, hey, I am not one to shy away from the tough questions, I am an unflinching investigator of the human condition. So let’s roll up our selves and dig in.
I can not stop shopping in the Juniors section.
Help me, please. Because I don’t want to be the grandma with single-processed platinum hair and boobs flapping around near her belly button pulling Necessary Objects shrugs off the rack to bring into a communal dressing room. And I think that’s right where I’m headed.
Here's how I know. When I got home and showed David the loot, I realized that every single item of clothing, all from the Juniors section, all peasant-y, patchwork, embroidered summer items, every single piece was totally and I do mean utterly see-through.
Now I have nothing against diaphanous apparel. Was a time I was the QUEEN of see-through clothing. Between the ages of about 15 and 30, I didn’t mind showing a little too much skin, because well, all the skin covered was muscle, bone and appropriately-placed deposits of fat that evolution put there for a reason. This was the chapter in my life, and I’ll be honest here, where I used clothing to adorn, entice and advertise my goods.
Two children later, the purpose of clothing for me has changed. I now choose clothing based on how well the piece of apparel deceives people into believing that I am less -- how can I put it -- robust than I really am. And see-through clothing is not helpful in that endeavor.
What we’re talking about here is aging gracefully. Aging gracefully means knowing when to stop wearing denim miniskirts, unless you are a celebrity. Aging gracefully means trying clothes on in a private dressing room, with a door, so the only person who has to see you squeeze your ample ass into one-size-too-small Capri pants is you. Aging gracefully means when you are pushing a stroller containing two bratty kids who are prone to attracting not-very-positive attention to you, that you should be wearing clothes that have no possibility of showing your cotton panties underneath.
I am failing at aging gracefully.
But I did have a lovely mother’s day weekend, complete with breakfast in bed, chocolate madelines and a gift of fine jewelry crafted by the hot new designer, Primo himself. The upside of my shopping misstep is that I now have an excuse to go back to Loehmann’s in less than fourteen days, to return see-through clothing. Anyone brave enough to join me and make sure I steer clear of Juniors?
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