The Jog-less Jogger

When did joggers, leggings, sweatpants, and oversized cardigan sweaters (“are you wearing your [pause for dramatic effect] robe?” asked a friend recently when he last saw me out and about) become not only a part of my wardrobe, but the wardrobe?

I’ll tell you when: March 13, 2020.

In the last sixteen months, I have accumulated so much in the way of “casual” clothes my drawers and closet look like spaces that will put you into a coma at the mere sight of them.

I have two full-to-the-brim dresser drawers of these clothes and a closet that is beginning to look like there was a fight between my oversized cardigans and my work blouses. If shredded polyester looks like that stuff inside cheap pillows then I think I know who won.

I remember the time when my jeans and work clothes severely outnumbered my “workout” clothes, but like applying makeup I’m not even sure I would remember how to wear them anymore. Do we still put on jeans one leg at a time? Or do you just commit and go full hog by hopping in with both feet?

Thanks, abi dickson. You took the words right out of my mouth.

Let’s not discuss if I will even remember how to fasten a button. My new wardrobe consists of drawstrings and elastic waistbands. From what I can remember, buttoning buttons requires some dexterity. Tasks using my fingers have been limited to opening a bottle of wine and games of Candy Crush.

What happens when the office opens back up and I have to dig out my work clothes? Will I recognize them? Will I be excited like when you move houses and unpack all your wares and act completely surprised as if you’ve never seen your favorite soup bowl before in your life?

Or like when you pull out the Christmas decorations and look at all the baubles and bows as if it’s been centuries since you’ve last met. (“Oh! Remember this ornament we bought when we first got married?” Even though it has hung on a tree in your living room for one month out of every year since 1992.)

I’ll just start slow. Like learning how to walk. Or maybe it will be like riding a bike.

Do I sound dramatic? You can blame Outlander for that one. I mean, come on. Who has pectorals like that?

Update: I went into the office one day last week and I survived putting on pants with buttons. It was confining and I rate wearing real pants a 2 out of 10. Like the bra, pants should also be burned.

The Ladies’ Liberation

I went into the city with a couple of friends the other day and we were shocked and appalled at the number of braless young ladies walking around. They were everywhere. So many, in fact, I was sure this was a new trend. A quick text to my twenty-three year old daughter confirmed my suspicion.

The inner old lady in me was secretly wagging a finger at them. I had a strong desire to throw a blanket over their shoulders and phone their mothers.

My internal young and wild side wanted to join them in liberation. That crazy side of me felt the urge to plan an impromptu “Burning Of the Bra” ceremony in front of the Victoria’s Secret on 5th & 12th and watch in joyful glee while underwire, elastic, and eye hooks all went up in flames. Joined together as sisters by our eternal hatred for the torture chamber that is called a Brassiere. But it was obvious they already did that because, as I said, there was ne’er a bra to be seen.

The bra I was wearing that day felt overly confining in the mid-June heat of the city. It didn’t take long for it to be soaked with my perspiration. I am fairly well endowed so there is always too much fabric and this fabric was suffocating all things from shoulders to ribcage. Making its presence irritatingly known more than ever.

I daydreamed about the end of the day when I could sit in the privacy of my own home and pull it off in a frenzied fury, disrobing so my girls could be free at last. The thought of walking down Park Avenue sans bra was deliciously tempting. Unfortunately, not only am I well endowed but time and elasticity — or lack thereof — have not been kind to me.

Seen on Pinterest somewhere

Whereas these lovely ladies only had the risk of having a nipple poke through the fabric of their shirts, I was afraid mine would end up at the waistline of my shorts.

As much as I wanted to throw my bra to the concrete jungle right then and there, I just knew it couldn’t be. I very well could have been the subject of a viral photo warning the public, “large, middle aged breasts on the loose. If seen, please throw them a blanket and call their mother.”

As I stared at these ladies in wonder, I was transported back to 1968 when the first bra burning took place. I know I was only one at the time and it would be another twelve years before I got my first training bra, but I could have been there.

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t possible, but I have seen pictures so it was like I was there.

By the way, who named it a “training” bra anyway? They aren’t called beasts, they are called breasts. You can’t just train them to sit, beg, bark or fetch a ball on command.

Full disclosure: I always thought a training bra was to keep our breasts up, to prevent them from drooping. But upon a quick google search I discovered the dreaded training bra is to train us and not our breasts. You know, so we can get used to wearing them.

I have been wearing a bra of some sort for over forty years and I am about as used to them as I am used to a full-on hot flash in the middle of August.

It is said purchasing your first training bra is a rite of passage.

If you believe that standing in the middle of Caldor with your mother thrusting a glorified tank top in your face, yelling at you to pull it on over your shirt in the middle of the toy aisle is a rite of passage, then the Brooklyn Bridge belongs to me and I’m going to sell it to you.

By the end of my day in the city I had gotten so used to seeing this, my disgust turned to envy. These ladies were on to something. This may be one of the best trends to hit the streets of New York City since the Croc.

But as usual I am a dollar short and three breasts sizes too late.

The Long Ago Day of the Heel

I can’t pinpoint the date. Probably because it is not exactly what I would call traumatic. And besides, I feel like it was a slow death. Kind of like when your aging gums start to recede until you have no gums left at all. It’s gradual until the time has come for an alternative.

I have a closet full of them (heels not gums). They are all covered in a fine mist of dust and something that looks suspiciously like tumbleweeds stuck at the section where heel meets impossibly steep shank.

They were once very much loved. You can tell by the missing heel tips, and the rubbed-off leather on the technically speaking “counter” (the back of the shoe to you laymen) from using them as driving shoes.

The treatment they receive these days is less than par. Let’s just say if my shoes were human I would be spending the rest of my days making license plates and eating cold porridge for breakfast.

It will be one full year since this pandemic started and I was ousted from the office to work from the privacy of my own home. Yes, I am very lucky. No, I am not bragging. I’m just stating a fact.

Although I absolutely can blame the pandemic on many things, I cannot blame it on my inability to walk in shoes that have a heel height greater than a quarter of an inch.

Before this pandemic I wore flats to work most of the time. Once in a while if I was feeling crazy and wanted to completely let my hair down and get all “Girls Gone Wild” on myself, I would choose one of the two pairs of kitten heels I own.

For those of you who may not know what a kitten heel is, let me put it to you this way: there were plastic princess shoes with a higher heel in my child’s chest of dress-up clothes.

And I can’t wear them. These kitten heels. I try in vain, but by midday my puppies are barking at me like a couple of junkyard dogs.

The last time I recall wearing real high heels was at a nephew’s wedding nearly nine years ago. They are gorgeous, sparkly, open-toed, five-inch heeled stilettos. I have the photos to prove I kept them on longer than the church service.

These days if I even attempt to stand up in a pair of stilettos, I resemble a newborn baby elephant. Except the elephant is much more graceful. No matter how hard I try, I can barely get across the room without running the risk of spraining an ankle.

In my youth I could have run a marathon in high heels. I wore them as if I was born with them on my feet. The confidence I exuded from wearing a pair of four or five inch heels was incredible. And damn. They made my legs look great.

These days I look like a squatty sloth. My fuzzy slippers may be comfortable but they do nothing for me aesthetically. Although they do look real cute with my favorite pair of yoga pants. On days I want to get really freaky, I’ll wear a matching t-shirt.

So, that’s my story. My heel wearing days are over. Well, until my only child’s wedding day. I’ll just be sure there is a wheelchair nearby. Although, I suspect I’ll be utilizing that before the wedding march cues up.

Spanx Me

Image source: NatalieDee.com

Remember back in the day when we could go do fancy things and wear fancy clothes? Like, for a wedding or formal dinner? Ho hum, me too. I sure do miss you, any year before 2020.

Although I have to say I have grown quite accustomed to wearing yoga pants and not wearing a bra or makeup — with my hair up in what I call a messy bun, but may look more like the home of a black-billed magpie to you — I sometimes long for somewhere decent to go besides the McDonald’s drive-thru and ShopRite.

Somewhere to go where I can actually take the time to put on makeup and look presentable enough to see the Queen. Or at least her housemaid.

Unfortunately for me, the little black dress requires some extra help these days. And it comes in the form of the household name called “Spanx.”

The Spanx I do not miss. Although it does lie in wait for me — sharing a drawer with my most private undergarments — I do not look forward to shoehorning myself into those items again anytime soon.

One of the last weddings I attended was that of a nephew. This was before I lost weight (and gained it back again, as I do). I took the time to curl my hair with the same hot roller set my mother used in the ’70s, and applied my makeup with such precision anyone could have confused me with Michelangelo during the painting of the Sistine Chapel, I’m sure of it.

Everything looked good from the head up. In my opinion, anyway. Now to do something with the below-the-neck portion of myself. I couldn’t very well go to this event bodiless now, could I? No, that most likely would have stolen the bride’s thunder.

I couldn’t help myself. Photo courtesy of sites.psu.edu

My little black dress fit like a glove — you know, of the O.J. variety. If it didn’t fit, then why didn’t I quit? Because, like I said, I had something in my arsenal that I hoped would help.

Enter The Spanx, stage left.

Now, of course, like most women in my situation I have more than one to choose from. I have the high waisted brief, the bodysuit, the shaping cami, the thigh slimmer…just to name a few.

Now, to make the excruciating decision of which garment to wear, umm, under my garment. I tried on several and quickly discovered that just one pair of Spanx wasn’t going to cut it.

It was made abundantly clear there was only one way to tame the beast. And that was to double up.

In the end I decided on the bodysuit and the high waisted brief (yes, it’s as sexy as it sounds). The bodysuit OVER the high waisted brief to prevent the brief from rolling down my body like a roller shade.

Brilliant.

Except it wasn’t. You know, brilliant.

Have you ever worn armor? The kind that is made of steel? Me neither. But I imagine it must be pretty darn close to what I created for myself that day. It was total torture.

Don’t let the smile fool you. I was crying on the inside..

Once I got everything pulled on and pulled in, I thought I looked pretty good. But what I didn’t factor in was sitting down, bathroom breaks, the damage I was potentially doing to my internal organs, and umm, living.

I’m not really sure how the ladies of the 18th and 19th centuries survived this nonsense. It’s a wonder the corset survived more than a day let alone several hundreds of years.

Also, I don’t know who came up with the cliche, “beauty is pain,” but she should have her tongue cut out.

Fun fact: Can you believe a woman invented the first corset? She probably died of internal bleeding.

Not a mere few hours prior I was channeling Michelangelo. Now I was channeling a pregnant women overdue with a literal village. Bending at the waist was a near impossibility. It was not going well.

Trying to use the facilities was a whole other story. Although unintentional, I was suddenly a physical comedian. Lucille Ball had nothing on me. Unfortunately, the show was wasted on the inside of a 2’x2′ bathroom stall.

Anyway, I survived the night. Mostly because I gave up and pulled the darn things off altogether. I could hear the collective deep sigh of relief from my ovaries to my liver.

These Spanx may not have fit nicely under my little black dress, but they sure did fit nicely in my little black bag.

A Lost Art?

The profile picture I use for my blog, Instagram, and Facebook page is of me when I was five years old. Although this particular outfit is not made by hand, the bows to tie my hair up in pigtails are.

My dad was always better at hair. He must have been busy that day.

She didn’t spin the wool herself, but my mom cut off foot-long pieces of yarn from a skein of red wool she had hanging around the house, and tied them using her best basic double knot.

She liked to knit. She never made anything extravagant, but we had enough afghans and winter scarves to last a lifetime. It was good to know we wouldn’t freeze to death.

She also liked to sew. But more on that in a minute.

When I was growing up, my parents didn’t have a lot of money. It wasn’t like we were an anomaly. This is the way it was for everyone we knew. We were an Army family. We hung out with other Army families. We lived amongst Army families.

In retrospect, the signs were clear. Typically, Santa’s toys don’t smell like bleach. And our weekly jaunts picking up other people’s discarded items along the curb on garbage day most likely wasn’t just an “adventure.”

Then there were the handmade clothes.

I can still remember going into the local fabric store and purchasing patterns with my mom. I remember the tan colored paper McCall’s patterns laid out across the kitchen table. The shears that were meant for nothing but fabric. And the straight pins that would inevitably stab us if we moved too much while being fitted for the perfect polyester red and blue plaid bell bottoms that we were all going to be forced to wear.

My mom actually made me that little number on the left. This was during what I like to lovingly refer to as my “Mary Ingalls” phase

After my dad retired from the Army, we moved to a small town about an hour north of New York City. As if being the new kid at school wasn’t bad enough, wearing “Mom’s Special” was the icing on the cake. For me it was a pair of stiff denim gauchos — made stiffer with a can of extra crisp Niagara starch spray, or so it seemed — and a checkered shirt that came equipped with its own elastic neckline. You know, so I could hang myself with it if it got bad.

On my first day of school, Mr. Levi called my name to stand at the head of the class. I must have looked like a dark blue Acute Triangle to my fellow students. These were followed up by a pair of white knee socks and black and white saddle shoes which, unbelievably, did not catch on. Apparently, saddle shoes should have been left behind in 1956. Trying to bring them into 1979 just wasn’t going to happen.

A trend setter I was not.

Although I don’t have an actual photograph, I can still close my eyes and see myself standing there. With barrettes to hold back my long blonde hair, and a wide-toothed half smile that I’m sure said “please don’t throw anything larger than a whiffle ball at me” all over it.

I must have been a sight. I’m certain I was the only kid in my class to don clothes that were stitched by her own mother’s hands.

And you know what? I didn’t realize it until years later, but I was also the luckiest kid. Because my mother took the time to make clothes for me. Who needed Jordache jeans anyway? Well actually, I did. But I don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t know if I ever wore that outfit again. Even though I adored those gauchos. Peer pressure gets the better of you even at the tender age of twelve. My mother made them with love and I will forever be grateful for that.

But an elastic neckline, mom? Just so you know, there’s the crew neck, the boat neck, the scoop neck, the V-neck…shall I go on?

A Pointless Post About the Weather. And Clothes.

I live in New England where the weather can be unpredictable. There are often times when I have come upon the problem of what to wear. Especially this time of year.

I mean, I am certainly no fashionista. Just ask my daughter, nieces, and well, anyone who has half a sense of style. The consultation of a color chart to make sure black goes with white is quite necessary in my life.

Please remember I’m from the 80s where you matched your socks to your pocketbook, so getting dressed is as difficult for me as putting a square peg into a round hole.

But I’m not talking about my fashion sense. Or lack thereof.

I’m talking about clothes you wear according to a change in the barometer. It’s not like headaches, and colds, and painful knees aren’t enough, but we also have to worry about our attire.

It’s October here. You know, like it is everywhere. Last week I wanted to pull out my riding boots. The ones I’ve had since 2008 because I have thick calves and these days it’s nearly impossible for me to find boots that I can zip past my ankles.

I googled “when is it appropriate to start wearing boots” and my answer was, “October.” Do you want to know why I googled that? Because I woke up sweating and it was only 6 o’clock in the morning.

I quickly looked at the weather app, and saw that I was sweating for a reason. The temperature was going to climb up to 90 degrees. Certainly 90 degrees in October is different from 90 degrees in August. Right?

Not really. No. Actually. It’s not. I suspect I would have looked silly in boots when it was still technically flip flop weather.

I had to forego my entire outfit — the one that included my beloved boots — and hit the closet again to see what I was feeling. Well, what I was feeling was a sundress and sandals. But that didn’t seem appropriate.

I realize the alternative is to just wear nothing, but I’m afraid the little fact that I went into work wearing nothing but my birthday suit would cause heads to turn, and not in a good way. I would most likely lose my job and end up in jail for indecent exposure. Although I always thought going viral for something would be fun, this is not what I had in mind.

If there were still newspapers, I can only imagine the headline. “Middle Aged Woman Loses Mind and Job Over What to Wear.” With a picture of my face on a body that has been blurred out by Photoshop. All I can say is, thank god for Photoshop.

I guess that means I have to wear clothes. At least to work. Back to the drawing board. So, does black go with white?

If Clothes Maketh the Man, Then Why Did He Invent the Bra?

I find it funny how I plan my life around my bra. This is true. And I know I’m not alone.

From the moment I put it on in the morning I dream of removing it. By mid-afternoon, it’s all I can do to not pull it through the armholes of my top and fling it across the office space right into the trash receptacle so it can live as one with yesterday’s lunch and the extra printer copies of last month’s budget.

But alas, I hold it together. No pun intended.

I mean, come on, what is so appealing? The shoulder straps don’t stay up, and if they do, they dig into your skin like a bad habit. There is the feeling of a vice tightening up around your ribcage with every breath. And the underwire feels as if a moat is being dug around the underbelly of your bosoms.

It’s safe to say my commute home is filled with images of me being braless. And as soon I get in the door, that’s what I do. Go braless. I really have grown quite a distaste for the — dare I say — “over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.” If you haven’t quite guessed.

Although my younger self would beg to differ and, quite honestly, would have mouth agape in disbelief at my proclamation. Back in the day I would spend tons of money and hours looking for the perfect bras to match each pair of underwear. The pride I took in my undergarments was a bit ridiculous.

I also took the “make sure you have clean underwear because you never know if you’ll be in an accident” advice my mother repeated to me ad nauseam to a whole new level.

In defense of my younger self, the ta-ta’s were cute and perky and just, cute. Thirty some-odd years later they have been poked and prodded (thank you mammograms, ultrasounds, and self exams), been the food source for my newborn, and gained a few pounds, to say the very least.

These days, I’m lucky to put on a pair of underwear that don’t have a hole in them or that are so stretched out it’s a miracle they stay up at all. Forget about matching my bra. That ideal went out the window with the dawn of the new century.

So, getting back to my point. Once the bra comes off, I’m done for the day and/or night.

A friend could call me to go on a crazy adventure where a meeting with Channing Tatum (or is that Tatum Channing?) would be promised, and I wouldn’t do it. I’d rather endure a trip to Hell than put that medieval torture device back on.

DH could want to surprise me with a quick rendezvous to Tahiti for a romantic dinner for two…oh, well, Tahiti probably wouldn’t mind if I went braless so that’s a bad example. But you know what I’m saying.

If The Kid is home from college and she wants to invite her boyfriend over, I either banish myself to my room like a hermit for the evening, or will not allow the visit.

Yes, I am embarrassed to say that I have said, “Can’t you go over there? My bra is already off,” more times than I care to admit. And if he comes over anyway? Well, that’s HIS problem. Everyone has been forewarned.

Remind me why we wear bras again?

Yes, I know. People could get hurt, including our very own chins when we run. And they “girls” could be mistaken for extra belly fat, if you know what I mean.

I guess the bra is here to stay. Unless we can bring “bra burning” back into fashion. I know how to light a match. I learned that when I…ahem, never mind.

Note: I love my breasts. They are one of my favorite parts of my body, and I’m so fortunate to have them. But damn, that bra. It’s the bane of my existence. Wait. Have I said that already?

Everything’s Coming Up Lillies

Worse than any hangover I've ever had. Okay. Third worst.
Worse than any hangover I’ve ever had. Okay. Third worst.

I woke up with a Lilly hangover this morning. What is a Lilly hangover you ask? It’s when you stay up until the wee early morning hours in the hopes of being one of the first online to scap up some Lilly Pulitzer for Target crap.

Have I lost my mind? Yes, I have. I will tell you something else. I’m pretty sure Lilly is rolling around in her grave right now. Because…Target. (I love Target, don’t get me wrong. But Lilly in Target? That’s like Imelda Marcos in Payless.)

In case you live in a box, cave or have a life, here’s a recap…

The powers that be at Lilly Pulitzer, for reasons I don’t really know because I know nothing about economics or consumerism or whatever, decided to collaborate with Target.

My best guess is that the Lilly people basically dummied down their product and slashed their prices by a million percent so that middle America could afford it. So these people get a taste of Lilly and the patterned gold and will want more. Except if they want it, they’ll have to go get the real stuff. We’ll just call them Lilly Teasers.

I am not a Lilly fan. My style is relaxed moms-wear, preferably in browns and blacks with the waistband of my jeans landing somewhere north of my belly button. My idea of bold is wearing mismatched socks.

A little over a year ago, I had never even heard of Lilly. So, why the (partial) all-nighter? I’ll give you one hint. She’s an off-spring of mine. And her wish list was long.

Just so you know, I didn’t have to stay up until 2am. I didn’t do it for moral support or to be a cheerleader. But because leaving your credit card alone with a 16 year old is probably not the wisest decision. Although by the end of the hour, she had those 16 digits committed to memory. Twenty something hours later, she still knows them. I’m a little bit scared.

So, here’s how it went down:

After stressing for two days because we weren’t going to be near a Target on the coveted day because we were away at a dance thing with other Lilly-loving junkies, we found someone to follow on Facebook that would keep us in the know. In other words, tell us when Target/Lilly would be releasing the goods online.

We refreshed and refreshed some more ’till the cows came home when suddenly our new Facebook Lilly friend made an announcement to “QUICK HURRY UP AND SWITCH TO YOUR MOBILE DEVICE!!!” In layman’s terms, that means that you could only order via your smart phone. Don’t ask because I don’t know. It’s one of those technological mysteries.

buying lilly
The Lilly Brigade

After much screaming, a broken eardrum and some pissed off neighbors, everyone had their phones ready to go. We were now prepared to procure some of the cheap coveted Lilly wear. Our new Facebook Lilly friend posted links to specific items in drips and drabs. This all happened before the actual online sale started.

After we were able to purchase some items, I saw a comment that the links were “leaked” and that Target found out and put a stop to the madness pronto. Now, I don’t know if that is true or not. But that’s what I read. And since the links stopped coming and from what I’ve seen in the wake of the madness, I believe it to be true.

Finally at nearly 2:30am, the heavy lidded teens and temporarily insane moms went to bed. I awoke to pissed off people on Facebook complaining about the injustice of it all. When they did finally announce the sale online, most everything was gone. Or gone within minutes. Possibly even seconds.

Pictures of brick and mortar Targets with lines wrapping halfway to the back parking lot were being posted. Hey, you people at the back of the 300 people deep line? Go home. You’re not even getting a nail file (which could have been yours for $2).

Apparently, we were very “lucky” to be able to get what we got. Now to wait for the shipments to come in. If the quality is at least better than a paper bag, then we may be keeping it. If not? We’ll have years of gift giving sitting in the closet. Oops. Did I just say that out loud?

Oh, and one more thing…if you tell anyone I actually was a willing participant in the madness? I’ll deny it. And you’ll never get a cheap cute Lilly headband that I bought for $15 from me.

And may I please introduce to you....The Final List.
And may I please introduce to you….The Final List.

 

Keep It In Your Pants, Son

This photo popped up on my Facebook newsfeed a couple of weeks ago:

10177220_774125102632930_3564322072811564005_n

The Men’s Half Thong.  It’s so wrong, it’s just wrong.  I’m not quite sure what I thought when I first saw it.  I think I was a little shocked.  Which is weird for me because really, I am pretty open-minded.  It takes a lot to shock me.  And a lot to totally gross me out.  But this did it.  It both shocked and totally grossed me out.

Come on people, really?  Lordy, keep your junk hidden.  Give us something to leave to our imagination.  Would you like it if we walked around with our….oh, never mind.

Then of course, I inevitably had the next thought that I know everyone else in the free world is thinking:  How does it stay in place?

The only thing I could come up with is it has sticky stuff all up and around it.  So, it kinda works like a pasty, but instead of for boobs, it’s for penises (peen-eye?).  And even though I don’t have one, it kind of pained me to imagine ripping that stuff off my junk at the end of a long day at the beach after sweating and sea salt and who knows what else.

I shared the photo with my followers on my Facebook page (if you don’t follow me there yet, you can do so here: https://www.facebook.com/Momfeldcom).  I got all kinds of reactions.  Mostly everyone was disgusted.  Some had some funny things to say about it.  One follower said her friend’s mom thought it was spring loaded like ear cuffs.  Someone else said they were wondering about the amount of waxing that would be needed.  Then the conversation turned to red, white and blue.  Get it?  Red, white and BLUE?  It was all quite entertaining.  Still I needed to get to the bottom of it.  I needed to know how it stayed up.

Then a nice follower of mine shared this photo with me and shed some much needed light:

10247361_10152456332366140_8740617195690517778_n
Sorry, this pic is so small it’s hard to see. But you should be thankful.

So, it’s like a pant leg except it is missing the leg.  Well, it does have a “leg” but it’s the wrong leg.  It’s missing a lot of the material except for ahem, one little itty bitty part.  Or big part, depending on who you’re talking to.

You stick your leg through it and the string stays in place via butt crack.  Perfect.  Still not pretty.  Then random weird images ran through my mind like my dad wearing it and stuff.  Totally involuntary, by the way.  Sorry dad, I love ya, but….eww.

So, you know what guys?  Can you stick to a real bathing suit?  One that covers up a little more?  We know you have a penis.  You don’t need to prove it to us.  And I would like my lunch to stay where it was intended.  Thank you, the world at large appreciates it. 😉

 

A Girl and Her Parka

A friend posted this on Facebook the other day:

parka 2

I LOL’ed to myself and then I “Liked” the photo.  This friend commented that she was surprised that I did not comment.  Do you want to know why I did not comment?  Because people who live in glass houses should not throw stones.  Here is my look for 6 months out of the year:Yes, I have even worn slippers when dropping The Kid off at school.  I never said I was proud.

Yes, I have even worn slippers when dropping The Kid off at school. I never said I was proud.

During the off season, I keep it hidden away in an upstair’s closet.  Where it lies in wait for its annual debut.  October is when it comes out into the light and hangs on the coat hook by the garage door until the end of March.  Always ready for my eager self.

I love my parka so, SO much.  It literally is my best friend.  The Kid hates it.  When I say “hate” I mean it.  If given the chance to throw a lit match at it, I’m pretty sure she’d take it.  Hopefully, with me NOT inside.  I can see her cringe on the field hockey field when she sees me sitting in the bleachers wearing it.  Or when I throw it on to drop her and her friends off at the mall.  Sometimes I’ll even add my pair of Fuggs to complete the look.  This is the ultimate revenge tool.  There is nothing like embarrassing your teenager.  I live for it.  But that is only one of the reasons why I love my parka so.

  1. This thing covers up every flaw, faux pas, and bad hair day.  There is nothing like a big fluff of goose feathers to mask every imperfection from the scalp to the knees.  Now if I could only get away with wearing it in July.
  2. It allows me to get more sleep.  How?  I don’t have to waste time getting dressed.  If you happen to run into me at school or the grocery store and I am wearing this, you can bet the ranch on the fact that there is nothing but hairy legs, bra-less ta-tas and Walmart pajama bottoms under there.  I might be kinda screwed if I get arrested or wind up in a car accident.  Because chances are, if I’m dressed like this, I also have not changed my underwear.  Sorry mom.
  3. This bad boy covers my buns.  And if my buns are warm, everything is warm.  Who said heat escapes through the head?
  4. It is machine washable and dryer safe.  My white parka has the misfortune of being owned by a slob.  Therefore, it pretty much gets a bath every time I lean against my car, spill coffee on myself or sit.  It has seen the inside of a washing machine more times than Miley Cyrus has stuck out her tongue.

So, Purple Parka People, have you no shame?   Walking around in a comforter with arms?  Of course you don’t.  Neither do I.  I just hope you are dressed under there.  There is room for only one PJ clad housewife in this town.