Retail Redux

I had to get my car smogged today (ooh, sexy), and happened to be near a mall I never go to anymore. Actually, that's not true--I go there, but when I do I am shelling out tickets for the train and the jump-jump and supervising "cooking" at Pottery Barn Kids, so I don't shop.

But today I was alone, since Jarrah was at camp, and I figured what the hell. I ate some lunch in the sun, and then I wandered, lonely as a cloud, or anyway as aimless as a cloud--I wasn't feeling particularly lonely. I happened upon a Cathy Jean, which is a shoe store. As a teenager, I bought all my shoes at Cathy Jean, so it's hard to believe they're still around. Surveying the shelves, I could also see that the wares haven't changed much. But catching myself in the mirror, I was a bit startled to see that I certainly have.

I was caught off-guard by my distinct "mom look." It's not that I dress conservatively, or have a sensible bob, or pearl earrings or anything like that. No, it's more that the cargo capris and t-shirt and flip-flops that once would have said "casual" and "insouciant" now seem to shout "sloppy" and "apathetic." They also whispered "tired." When I dared check my face, there were the laugh lines, and the little wrinkle in my forehead that I certainly have earned.

Suddenly, I felt deeply self-conscious. I would describe the shoes at Cathy Jean as "catering to a youth market." The fact that I do this instantly excludes me from that market. Next to me, a woman with 20 years on me admired some stilletos. She was wearing skin-tight jeans, towering heels, and a whole lot of Restylane. I made a silent promise that I will not be trying to look like that in 20 years. But when did this happen, this self-consciousness? This awareness that certain shops I've frequented my whole life no longer cater to me? Or rather, that they shouldn't? And why do I feel so sure of that? How can I suddenly tell that I should not be wearing the complicated tops with gold gew-gaws and laces and the giant faux jewelry? What makes it so obvious to me? What the hell happened, and when?

I think I know when it happened. It happened when I became a mom. Pretty much instantly. Because from that moment forward, I spent at least a year--maybe two--bent over strollers and boosters and changing tables and now it's been 3.5 years and--well--I have changed. My looks are the worse for wear. The new wrinkles. The grey hairs. Body parts that seem to have shifted without a good excuse for why. But it's a mental thing, too. I can't pretend to be a teenager, sure, but I've known that for a while. But for many, many years, I was basically a college student who never left college. I was "at college" for 15 years. No, that's not a typo. FIFTEEN YEARS. What incentive did I have to be a "serious" adult? I was single (well, not married.) I didn't have kids. I still had milk crates holding my books. I didn't own a suit. I slept on a futon. I wrote poetry in the woods. I dated inappropriate people. And you know what? I'm not ashamed. I LIKED IT.

I took a deep breath and asked the teenage salesgirl for some silly high heels in my size. What the hell? It's summer. I don't own any frivolous shoes. I may have crossed an invisible line, but I'm not ready for the purple hats. She didn't seem to find anything odd, so I started to relax. And the shoes were cute, and comfortable, and on sale. I may actually wear them someday.

Emboldened, I wandered on. I drifted into The Limited, another store that supplied the bulk of my teenage wardrobe. My first glance frightened me. Mini-skirts. Chain-link belts. Bright colors. Then a salesgirl approached and said all the pants were on sale. I was about to leave, really I was. But her smile was so nice, and let's just say Baby and I both have some back. I blurted out, "I have long legs but a really short waist. I don't want to button the pants right under my boobs. Do you have any that would fit me?"

Readers, she gave me a look that I will cherish. Not just compassionate, but like "Girl, story of my life. Say no more." She swished some hangers around and soon I was holding a bunch of pants. Getting braver, I grabbed some of the bright, complicated shirts, too, and headed to a dressing room.

Inside, I slipped into a pair of black pants that freakin' fit like they'd been tailored for my concert tour. And they were THE RIGHT LENGTH. I'm 5'4". That never happens. I pulled on a bright, ruffly shirt. Not too bad. One of the girlies (I now had about four at my beck and call) knocked on the door with more pants. I was getting into it. The music was blasting. I was posing and dancing around.

Then I looked at my phone. Crap. I have to pick Jarrah up in 15 minutes. There's no way I'm making it, and they're going to charge me a late fee. It was like a bucket of cold water over my red hot sassiness. Plus, I felt like a bad mom. I started calling other moms to see if they could sign Jarrah out for me, yelling my request over "Hella Good," like I'm in a bar or something. Yeah, I'm doing some shots--can you pick up my daughter?

As I speed-walked to the car, I had to shake my head and smile a little. Here I was, thinking I was all that, reminiscing with my bad self, and then I get this little reminder. You're a mom. You can't be wiggling your ass in dressing rooms without a care in the world anymore. Wake up and smell the mac and cheese.

Sure, sure. I get it. But I did buy the pants. And I will strut. Look out, world.