I once enjoyed shopping. Putting outfits together, trying them on, and finding a deal. Maybe busyness turned it into a chore. Styling clothing isn’t in my toolbox of skills nor is it my love language. Two kids and midlife later, nothing seems to fit. Unless frumpy counts as a good fit.
The skirt I liked? The top paired with the skirt on the rack didn’t fit well with no option to size up. I can’t figure out what top to add to make it work. Plus, the fabric is ridiculous for wearing in sweltering central Texas heat. Back with your friends you go, skirt.
I debated getting a functional and cute cream colored jean jacket. I’ll use it for conference week. The perfect touch for layering. Do I need a jacket? No. It fit. I liked it. It’s getting added to my wardrobe. Should last a decade, much like what I already own.
There’s an oversized t-shirt perfect for layering over a workout tank. 100 % cotton, what a nice surprise. Is it too oversized? I size down and choose green instead of washed-out coral. Meh. I keep my first choice.
Pants. Endless racks of pants. All made for people with long, willowy giraffe legs. Too short for regular, too tall for petite. Black athleisure pants make the cut, but they’ll get two or three wearings before the heat and humidity kick in and I switch to wearing loose dresses, skirts, and cropped chinos.
The checkout line snakes around and grows to extend past the middle of the store, a retail python devouring materialism and must haves. This many people shot at brick and mortar stores even with people shopping online? If you think retail shopping is dead, try again.
Swift transactions keep the line moving surprisingly quick. I politely decline all of the offers for discounts, credit cards, rewards programs and everything else designed to get me back in the door. Know what would get me back through the door? Clothes in my size that fit.
Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.
I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.
My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.
I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?
It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.
I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.
Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.
I know my wardrobe needs refreshing. We have jeans days every Thursday and Friday. Thursday we top them with a school t-shirt, Friday it’s a college t-shirt. A uniform of sorts. I don’t complain; I know what to wear at least two days of the week. Jeans aren’t my favorite so I may or may not wear them two days in a row if they’re still clean. Don’t want to waste the break-in from the last wash. I can move in them better on day two.
Having worn 80’s and 90’s fashion trends, I don’t want to wear them again. There’s nothing wrong with them, they just don’t feel right. I got my dose of parachute pants and floral prints with thick soled shoes the first time around. Cropped oxford shirts aren’t appropriate for me to wear to work. Sure I could wear a tank underneath it, but why not just make regular length oxford shirts? It’s a remix of what was trendy, but now I can’t wear it even if I want to.
Warmer temperatures have me scanning my closet for transition pieces. Dresses, especially flowy ones that are potluck friendly pair well with a jean jacket studded with bookish enamel pins. I’m not to old for that trend. I found a great dress a few weeks ago. I can dress it down or dress it up. It works with low profile sneakers, sandals, flats, you name it. Heck, if we go to the beach this summer, it will also be great for a family photo, salty breeze flowing through my hair, sun-kissed skin, a sunset behind us…
No, I didn’t try it on. It was late and I didn’t want to mess with the dressing room. Everything looks different at home, so might as well buy it and try it on in in the wild with normal lighting. If it doesn’t work, I’ll return it. I put it on and tied the belt around my waist. So comfy. Plus, POCKETS! This dress has pockets! I can stash Jolly Ranchers in them during a lesson and parse them out to the brave little souls willing to answer a question with actual vocal cords. I grab my jean jacket and put it on. Definitely an option for those chilly-ish days. I go through my shoes and find several that will work. Sandals for the beach. Birks for weekend brunch. Flats for church. Sneakers for work, on some days. This is perfect!
Giddy, I skip on over the the full length mirror. What. Is. That? My hips look like they’ve doubled in size. I turn around. Maybe it’s the jacket. I take it off. Maybe I tied the belt too tight? I untie it and retie it, looser. I put my hands in my pockets. Change shoes. Nope, nope, nope. It’s none of those things. Exactly. I look at the sleeves. 3/4 length with elastic, the kind those prissy influencers say to avoid. Well, I’m no influencer, but what in the world?
As cute as it was on the hanger this is all wrong. The sleeves are puffy. I got a size too big and how is it that something a little bigger actually makes you look bigger? There is no size medium and a half! That would be perfect. Maybe. I look at the sleeves. I look at the entire dress. Now that I think of it, I look like I’m wearing a belted hospital gown. The puffy sleeves make me look like an oversized mint colored marshmallow.
I take it off and put it back in the bag. Who made puffy sleeves a thing this season? Marshmallows? Sure, I’ll take one now and then roasted over a fire, but I certainly don’t want to wear them.
Three hours at Target. I didn’t plan to spend so much time there. What I typically say to myself after a Target run is I didn’t plan to spend so much money there.
When the kids were younger, I’d put them in the cart, stop at the snack bar, order a bag of popcorn, and speed walk down the aisles grabbing what I needed, a little of what I didn’t, and maybe a little something for myself. A bottle of wine strategically placed on an end cap or a new notebook. Later, I dropped off the oldest in the LEGO aisle, speed walked with little sis in the cart, bag of popcorn in tow, and picked him up on the way to the checkout lane.
Yesterday, I’m the one who needed a bag of popcorn and a bottle of wine. Three hours! Swimsuit shopping. Little is now thirteen and she scored a dressing room while a line of hopeful weekend Target shoppers patiently waited their turns. The downside to big box shopping is no one runs to get more outfits in different sizes for you. That was my job.
I found the dressing room stall she took over. She let me in to see one option. “The bottoms are weird.”
Sure enough, they were weird. Too much fabric was missing. “You’re not adult enough to wear that, no ma’am. I’m not adult enough to wear that!”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, but the top is cute.”
I stepped out to wait and out flew empty hangers, tops, bottoms, and a request for more. “Can you please bring me something bright, but NOT anything neon colored. Maybe something neutral that will suit my skin tone.”
Oh for the love of summer! There weren’t many other options. “You hate florals, so I don’t know what else you want.”
“Just pick something. If I get out of here, someone else will take my spot and I’ll have to get in line and wait all over again.”
I return to the massive swimsuit section to hunt for muted tones. I selected florals with neutral backgrounds. On purpose, along with some abstract prints. With spring break a week away, maybe that’s why everyone was shopping for swimwear. It could also be because all swimwear tends to disappear by April. Get it now or try to squeeze into last year’s swimsuits, if they still fit.
Knocking on the door, I offer a pile of four more swimsuits. “These aren’t quite your style, but you might like them once you’ve tried them on.”
“Ummm, I said no neon colors. I want something bright.”
“You said neutrals.”
“Well, neutral brights.”
I decided not to go where my brain wanted to go, we’re in public.
She hands back everything I brought without trying them on. “Never mind. I’ll take a look myself and get back in line.”
“There’s no line. It must come in waves and it’s calmed down now.”
I take the hangers and get them in order. The two teens working the dressing room looked exasperated. We’re heading back, so I decide to put them back myself.
There are two more possibilities from a wall of options. She heads back to the dressing room and I go back to my shopping list. I haven’t gotten anything I meant to get. I’m in the gardening section when I get a message.
“Where r u? Mom? Mom? Mommy!?”
She finds me and plops into the cart a hoodie, a pair of yoga pants, another swimsuit, and a pair of silver hoop earrings. She makes her way toward a bunny Squishmallow plush toy in the holiday section.
“I have a gift card,” she grins.
“With fifteen dollars left on it! You have two swimsuits in here. They’re priced by the piece,” I explain. “How much is that one top?”
“Eighteen.”
“And what do you plan to wear on your bottom half?”
We discussed options, chores, the gift card, homework, and more chores.
“I’ll meet you at the checkout lane,” I call, as she heads back to return most of what she thought she was getting.
Three hours. One swimsuit. Hoop earrings. A Pusheen hoodie. Pruning shears and some odds and ends I needed.
Target runs seemed so much easier when I stopped to buy popcorn.
My sister’s impromptu and welcome visit this weekend prompted a backyard hangout around the fire pit. Defaulting to high school memories, we discussed skipping school. Rule follower here, mostly. Classic first-born people pleaser characteristics. I wore my responsibility with honor, like a Hogwarts prefect. Except that I grew up in a small town where everyone can easily find out your business.
The first time I ever skipped school was the spring semester of my senior year. I think it was the first time I was absent since my bout with chicken pox when I was in kindergarten. Starting with first grade, I was in the running for the Lifetime (Sort of) Achievement Award for perfect attendance, the most embarrassing award I received at the end of every year. After that first absence, I went to school sick. No one sent me home because I learned to deal with discomfort. Boxes of Luden’s cherry cough drops were staples in my backpack. Halls eventually took over and Chloraspetic throat spray tamed my raw sore throats during winter months.
When most cool kids planned to skip school, they took off out of town. There wasn’t anything to do, so unless there was a plan to hide out in someone’s home and run the risk of being seen driving around during the school day, most kids drove an hour to the nearest big “city.” We heard about mall adventures, proved with matching Guess t-shirts or sunglasses or earrings. First, it must have been nice to have a car to leave town. Followed by knowing how to get to the mall without an adult. And having money to shop for matching Guess shirts.
One day, when my mom asked if I wanted to go shopping, I wasn’t sure what she meant. We usually ran errands on weekends. It’s mid-week. She said we’d go shopping. I didn’t think much of it until she added the part about missing school. Being a responsible mini-adult, I asked about missing class, making up class work, and returning to school. She assured me she’d write a note to excuse the absence.
We took off on our excursion with Uncle Danny tagging along. Uncle Danny was the best shopping partner. He still is. I wasn’t with friends, but we wound up at the mall. We hit the mega-clearance aisles and I wound up with two prom dresses. A bit guilty about getting two, my mom mentioned the other one could be saved for my sister the following year. They were such a good deal, she didn’t want to miss the opportunity to save major cash on another prom dress.
We ate out at a real restaurant. Took our time. Ran a few errands and headed back home by late afternoon.
The following morning, Mom wrote a note. I opened it and re-read it several times before I made my way to the office. There it was, her note, explaining that I was absent from school because I had a cold. I was nervous turning it in because I clearly had no signs of a cold. I mean, when I did have a cold, I reeked of cherry cough drops. I gave it to the secretary. My stomach churned. They took my note and I lingered as if waiting to be reprimanded. Surely they could see my lie. Or rather, my mom’s little made up story of a cold-less cold.
“Okay, get to class.”
That was it? I went back to class. It was so, easy. And I only had a few months left to do it again. Only I didn’t do it again.
I don’t remember having my classwork pile up on me. I don’t remember anyone making a big deal out my absence. I picked up where I left off. I couldn’t even skip school, the right way, but I did it. And it was one of my favorite days. My induction into adulthood.
The budget. That infamous budget forced Mom to buy me what I wanted, but didn’t want. If I needed a small bottle of glue for school, she bought the huge bottle to last the rest of the year. When I requested a cigar box to use for my school supplies, she bought a plastic one so it wouldn’t wear out. When I told her I needed a large green eraser, she bought one that was half pink for pencil erasures, and half gray for ink erasures. Who erases ink? I never used that eraser.
Sixth grade me in the pink western shirt with hot pink satin piping.
This time I was determined I wouldn’t let the budget get in my way. Western Day approached at school. It was the biggest day of the year, bigger than Halloween. Everyone participated in Western Day. I hated it because I only had last year’s pink western shirt with hot pink satin piping around the sleeves and collar. Mom had to hack a foot off the bottom of my jeans for them to fit.
I wanted to look like the other girls. Every year they wore their western hats and Wranglers, plaid western shirts pearl-buttoned up to the collar, and leather belts with their names stamped on them, complete with shiny heart shaped buckles that clasped in front. To complete their outfits, they wore boots. They got new boots every year. I had to settle for my sneakers.
I made up my mind. This year would be different. I owned a western shirt and jeans. I learned not ask about a hat. But boots, oh how I wanted a pair of boots. I imagined my boots, nice and smooth, black or brown—a nice neutral color, waiting for me on Western Day morning. I’d own the good kind, leather boots that creased around the widest part of my foot to fit, molding themselves to fit only me. They wouldn’t sound like high heels—those were too clickety—but commanding, a strong thud that let people know when I walked down the hall. Just the right sound, unlike how sneakers sounded when I stomped around in them or how they squeaked when I dragged my feet.
I needed con Mom into buying me these boots. “Just be patient,” she’d say. That meant no; it always meant no.
Determined to get my boots, I approached her cautiously like a cat approached a foreign object. I purred, “Western Day is coming up and I need a pair of boots. I can wear last year’s shirt, I have jeans, I don’t need a belt, but I need boots. Besides, the weather is getting colder and they’ll keep me warm when I walk to school in the mornings.” Whew! I let it out and she didn’t interrupt me. “I’ve been patient,” I added, letting her know I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied.
It was better than ‘be patient.’ Progress in the making. It wasn’t a yes or a no, but a maybe. Maybes worked out to my advantage. I pestered her about the boots until she gave in. I felt like two-stepping her to the car, but I didn’t want to make my enthusiasm too obvious. She might change her mind.
We drove to Carmen’s Western Wear. We rarely bought anything here; it was too expensive. They had lots of nice things to look at and dream about. Usually full of customers, there were no parking spaces. Mom parked a little way off, in front of old and grungy J.C. Jones, which sat next to the drugstore. I asked if they were even still in business. I jumped out of the car and made my way to Carmen’s. Mom cut me off.
“No, we’re going this way.”
I looked around. What did she mean?
“The drugstore?” I gulped.
“No,” she replied, pushing the door into J.C. Jones, “they have boots here too.”
Well, I thought, maybe we’ll go to Carmen’s after we’re done here.
Nerds Beget Nerds 