Walking in my mom jeans

As you get deeper, they get shorter. And smaller. The clothes in my closet. Its like some weird Alice in Wonderland thing. Once you get to the back of my closet, the dresses are oddly small and scandalously short. When the hell did my clothes get so much bigger?

Gone are the days of parking blocks away from the bar in the dead of winter in a dress that would now fit in my mom purse and no coat. My partner in fashion crime and I would spend hours getting ready, although I don’t understand why when there was half of my current size to get prepared. Each outfit carefully thought out to maximize all the areas I now carefully think out how to hide. I am quite confident that our hair products were the demise of the Earth’s ozone layer. Sorry Mother Nature, the 80’s called and I answered. This process would begin at the time I currently put on pajama pants to begin watching all the recorded shows I can’t stay up late enough to watch. We would get there early and hit the local dance club before the cover charge started, have a blue dinosaur (what is even in that?), and get our hands stamped so that we could come back later when the fun really started.

A certain french maid costume from Halloween past comes to mind. It hung in this distorted closet of mine for some time. Until my daughter asked who’s it was and if she could borrow it for a Halloween costume. Um, no? Somebody should have told me that my once hot backside and legs would one day not fit into it so that I could have appreciated it. And possibly have gotten a picture or two to prove that I had once zipped it with ease.

There was nothing complicated about my clothes back then. No comfort waistbands, no control panels. They didn’t even need to be longer than my Spanx. They were simple and lightweight and sexy.  So when I stroll to the back of my closet where the distorted clothes are, I smile when I think of that girl that once fit in them. She had great times in those dresses. But those dress memories don’t hold a candle to the memories made in my mom jeans. Every fiber of those control panels hidden so carefully by the over sized, somewhat fashionable, peasant blouses has a story to tell. Stories that at least to the now me, are far more intriguing. My dresses may be longer and my jeans may come up higher, but apparently I “make mom jeans look hot”.


Happy Mom Jean Day!



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