Time 7:45 am.
Place Washington DC, interior of my car.
Child 1: What’s that you’ve got going on there?
Me: What, where?
Child 1: Your outfit.
Me: *Vacant expression*
Me: Oh look, there’s a black cat. He just crossed RIGHT in front of the car. I’d watch yourselves today. Don’t do any heavy lifting or risky maneuvers.
Child 1: Mom, seriously.
Me: What? You know kids (*insert meaningful speech about not being so hung up about what other people think because we all know what really matters is that we are pretty and put together on the INSIDE*)
Child 1: *snaps fingers in front of my face* Uh mom?
Child 1: You do have to care a LITTLE bit.
Me: *looking down at self* Point taken.
I thought back to last year when I made a solemn promise to take stock, reassess and re-evaluate my wardrobe choices. I vowed to stop wearing my now mysteriously missing Snuggie to greet the UPS and mailman AND almost managed to throw out the terry cloth pants like item that defies description.
They are neither shorts nor pants but have wandered dangerously close to coolat territory with a chance at being capris if I wear them slung very low around my hips.
I got a thumbs down with that attempt.
There is also the matter of the tan granny sweater that goes over every outfit and the red shirt.
The red shirt is the bain of my husband’s exsistence.
He hates it.
Has even threatened to steal and burn it.
I don’t know why he feels SO strongly about it but he does.
It feels like a little slice of heaven when I put it on my body.
Today I am wearing ALL THREE together.
The granny sweater over the red shirt and the terry cloth pantaloony, Capri, coolats I had on earlier.
I traded them in for gap khakis because it’s cold as shit here this morning.