Yesterday I closed a chapter of my life. I have to admit, it wasn’t a surprise. In fact, I’ve seen it coming for a while now, and am more surprised I was able to drag out the last few “pages” as long as I did.
Yesterday, with the help of my mother-in-law I went shopping for a couple of hours, alone, and with no real purchase in mind. A pre-babies activity that I enjoyed as much as my post-baby self does hot coffee and those 15 minutes in the morning before either child wakes up. After rushing around Old Navy, scooping up 8 items to try on, discarding 5 and purchasing 3, in a matter of 15 minutes, I settled into the fact that I could slow down, I would not be receiving a panicked call to come home immediately. So I did. I strolled in and out of stores, picking up, putting down, sifting, flipping, folding, holding up, hanging up, and responding to salespeople inquiries with “I’m just browsing”, ah… it felt good to be back in the…
Wait, what the heck is that? And that? And that? Do people actually wear these pants? Why is this front table full of circus clothes? Is that a, no. It can’t be? Oh my god it is. A burgandy bodysuit. Holy shit. I’m not the mall’s target audience anymore, am I?
I paused for a moment, looked up from my mall-strolling daze and realized I was in a place I barely recognized anymore. For the past three years, I’ve been so absorbed with all those adorbale baby and toddler fashions, that I didn’t realize that grown-up style was evolving (as it always does). Because I missed the last 3 years of subtle change, yesterday’s good look around was an insane wake-up call. I felt old.
That being said, it wasn’t a bad feeling.
In fact, it was quite liberating. I didn’t feel the desire to ransack that rack of 40 dollar crop tops and “distressed” (read: went through a freakin’ woodchipper) daisy dukes, looking for an outfit that would look semi-ok on my flat chested, 4-pack in a good light, pasty white, dark haired, 15 year old body. I also didn’t feel the need to update my closet with the most current styles to keep up with Trendy-McGee, who has been getting all the looks by all the guys on campus. I was no longer the display table target audience, but that was because I no longer needed someone else to tell me how I wanted to look.
I glanced down into my Old Navy bag at my three pairs of new pants. Navy, Khaki, and Grey. A practical, comfortable, predictable blend of cotton and spandex…completely Mom-ish. Nothing too exciting, but they fit really well (aka came up high enough to contain my lovehandles and mom-pudge), were versatile (could go from park to date-night) and, not that it really mattered but I had planned to spice them up with some fun tops and colourful accessories. I smiled at my purchase. Not because they were going to make me feel like those 18 year old models in the posters or because they would make my butt look as fabulous as that mannequin’s, but because I knew I would feel good in them. They were going to be hugging my imperfect mum body while I made so many good memories.
It took almost 29 years and two babies to realize that I’m comfortable enough with where I’m at in life that I don’t need to use the latest trends to try to prove myself to anyone. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to look good, and I still love shopping (and buying new clothes), it’s just that I know what I like and what I don’t. I thought for a moment about how I might even be ready to invest in some quality pieces (you know, the expensive kind that will last longer than 6 washes), but then I looked down at the peanut butter finger prints and random mystery stain on the jeans I was sporting and decided I have a few more messy toddler years before that dream becomes a reality. Baby steps.
Until next time my friends,
-A
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