It’s Fall and I wanted to buy a couple of shirts and maybe a cardigan that I could wear with jeans, for those days where wearing yoga pants just isn’t possible. So I was looking on Eddie Bauer (or somewhere) thinking I could find something comfortable with a soft fabric that if I’m recording, won’t make weird rustling noises when I move my arm. (The things you have to worry about when you’re a narrator. I can never wear corduroy again.)
I found a comfy looking cardigan and checked the reviews. “This cardigan is so stylish and comfortable!” One review said. That sounded promising. The next review promised that “You can wear this sweater everywhere and you’ll look fashionable.” Okay. Another plus. I want to look fashionable. I want to be comfortable!
There were dozens and dozens of glowing reviews mentioning comfort, style, and ease of wear. That last one seemed a little weird. Then I looked at the ages of all the reviewers. There wasn’t one reviewer under the age of 70.
I thought, huh. So these are my people. These are my fashion sisters. I have now slipped into the time of my life when the ease of wearing a cardigan is heralded.
I didn’t buy the sweater. I’m not ready yet.
My son woke up with a cough and a slight fever. I sat with him on his bed while he drank juice that I snuck cough syrup into. It was two in the morning and I was struggling to stay awake. I got him a snack, rubbed his back, then gave him the iPad to watch an episode of Fool Us, a magic show with Penn & Teller. After awhile I said, “So, are you okay now? Can I go back to bed, or do you need me here?”
My son thought for a moment and then said, “You know, ma, it’s really comforting having you at my feet.”
Ah. Yes. I stayed.
One of the new shirts I bought, is a fitted button-up plaid sort of thing. It makes me feel like a soccer mom who is about to go camping (even though my kids don’t like sports and we don’t camp). I wore it on Friday and everywhere I went I felt like people were staring at me. An older woman looked at me and gasped. Men smiled. One winked. Later, I looked at myself in the mirror. The shirt is fitted in just a way that my breasts look ENORMOUS. I mean, I am kinda busty, but this shirt makes me look like I could be the wet nurse to a village of babies. In fact, I sorta felt like babies were stalking me the way bunnies stalk this lady:
Could be worse, I guess. I’m wearing the shirt again next week.
Foibles. I call myself @Blunder_Woman on Twitter for a reason. But now…at 41…I’m no longer really embarrassed by my little snafus. It just doesn’t feel like a well-lived day if I haven’t embarrassed myself at least a little.