When In Doubt, Prepare to Freak Out

I suppose my “visual-wardrobe-denial” has reached a new low, if my 11-year-old son doesn’t want me to leave the house in his presence whilst wearing my weekend wear. When did HE get to be such a fashionista anyway?? I would love to think that Clinton Kelly has somehow pulled some strings and decided to infiltrate my fashion consciousness “From the Inside….out” (ha.), but alas…even I had to admit it looked pretty bad when Connor thrust me in front of the full length mirror (yes, Clinton….I'm ashamed to say that I DO have one) in my room….simultaneously drying his sweaty palms on the front of my shorts.

I figured if Connor was willing to tag along (although I did need to sign a waiver which stated that I can at no time call him “Honey” whilst in public and that he is within his rights to refuse to acknowledge my existence whatsoever if he deems my appearance to be nearly as mortifying as he’s predicting it’ll look, once actually out amongst the general public), I guess it couldn’t hurt to just look.

I know that all the shorts should be on sale by now and if something doesn’t hit me immediately, I’ll just bag it. Geez…even I can do THAT.

So, off we went. We hit the video game store first (duh.) and then, a few doors down in the strip-mall we see a clothing store (the name escapes me…suffice to say, it was NOT Bed, Bath & Beyond… and that’s really the only store I ever feel is worth gleefully mentioning…) with *****SALE!***** in the window. I sigh deeply and say to Connor “Oh, well…nothin’ here…let’s go home,” and he says “Mom. Grow UP. Ya can’t wear a towel on your butt forever.” (I felt this was by far the most prophetic words ever spoken by one so young…words of such intelligence and fortitude that they could have been said by the Dalai Lama himself...I offered to buy him an ice cream cone whilst we discussed the deep significance of such a meaningful and mature statement, but he was hearing none of it.)

So, in we marched.

I flipped through a few racks, grimaced at a floral-print skirt that elicited memories of a skirt I tried to sew once in Home Ec Class in ninth grade with this putrid material that some fabric company threw away donated to the school. (I bungled that skirt horribly and got a D for the project and promptly threw it away, with nary a second thought...the emotional scars run so very deep, people.)

I found a few pairs of denim shorts that looked marginally do-able and a printed skirt that was work appropriate and I found myself relatively, somewhat, undecidedly certain that I might possibly have a top that would match it, but I doubted I had any shoes, but realizing that my window of opportunity was rapidly closing, (I spotted Connor sitting on the windowsill, staring at the ceiling, with his own #3 happy-place-bubble over his head) I grabbed a printed dress that looked somewhat interesting….and into the dressing room I dashed.

Well.

All the shorts were TOO BIG. Alas…this is the conundrum when one’s body is in a state of continuous instability…you just never know what the size-du-jour will be for that particular week. The dress, however...FIT! The skirt (that may or may not match anything)….FIT! Unfortunately, I’d come in for shorts as you recall…so I decided to make one more tour of the store for a possible match.

Upon putting my towel-shorts back on, I was horrified to discover that one of the handy-dandy drawstrings (an absolute necessity, given the oversized-nature of said shorts) had jumped ship and slipped inside the “internal track” (for lack of a better word) that runs the circumference of the waistline. To say I was annoyed does not even begin to properly convey my feelings…to say I was horrified is probably closer, as when I felt for the double knot that signified the end of the “rope-thingie”, it was a good 8-9 inches in! Completely, utterly and totally out of reach.

Realizing that I would need screwdriver, a safety pin, a bobbie pin, scotch tape, 2 Tylenol, a chopstick and a cocktail yet-to-be-named to rectify this dilemma, I realized it was time to go. I really, seriously wanted to purchase the other items I’d gone to the trouble (oy, the lengths...) to try on, but I had to endure the humiliation of trying to swipe my credit card, etc all the while clutching my shorts in a ball...in my fist, as they would have fallen straight to my ankles had I loosened my death grip for even a second. Connor looked slightly perplexed when I first emerged from the dressing room, then as the realization of my predicament became apparent, he simply chose to invoke the “I-do-not-know-her” clause in our contract and he chose to wait outside, which was as far away from me as he could legally get.

When we (I) got safely back in the car, I earnestly explained my dilemma and received no sympathy whatsoever. Not a whit. So much for all that empathy I'd imagined I'd passed on to the next generation....

And…just in case there’s some sympathy somewhere out there just waiting for me, here you go:




P.S.: Connor says he’s never going shopping with me again.