Saturday I donned my best daytime casual outfit.
Sam's Club jeggings and my plaid shirt from Targe'.
My mission was to go into the high end teeny bopper jeans store and try on everything under the sun.
After getting stuck in most of it, I left empty handed.
Walking to my mini-van, the one with the finger smudged tiny handprints on the windows, I realized something.
You'd think I'd have known it by now, what with all the kids running around and all, but catching my reflection in the hand printed glass, I realized it loud and clear.
I am a mother.
The kind who wants mom jeans that don't look like mom jeans and I want comfortable things that don't evoke images of streusel topped blueberry muffins. Is it too much to ask to give me a pair of jeans that come up to my rib cage? And I'm in no mood to fool with Spanx.
About the mom thing. I was starting to have my suspicions. Earlier this year I was meeting a friend at the coffee shop. When I arrived, I found an open set of chairs, claimed our spots and settled in for a little light reading before my friend showed up.
I whipped out my Christian Homemaker's Handbook and set to reading about smart routines for cleaning a home. I barely made it through the first paragraph before I began feeling incredibly uncool and uncomfortable with my reading choice. It's just that all the young college kids were there and I still think I'm 23 but my Homemaker Handbook was giving me away. I discretely tucked it back into my bag and started scrolling Facebook on my phone. A much hipper, trendier way to spend my time at the coffee shop. I think it helped distract from my velour.
I am sorry to say that two times I have tried to bust out a homemaking book at the coffee shop. Why does all this nonsense go back to my jeans? Because there is no getting around it. I'm getting older. You already know my increasing propensity to choose pie for dessert every single time. I can't even begin to tell you how much I enjoy using a pencil these days. And now the jeans business. It's all just kind of hard to take in.
You do have my solemn promise that though I may eye the elastic waisted Kim Rogers pant every cotton picking time, they are only eye candy.