What Not to Wear

Long before I got pregnant with my first child, I made a decision not to schlump. Having worked for years in the fashion industry I could not imagine trading in my leopard-heeled pumps for Aerosoles (or God help us, Crocs). No, I would be different. Babies or no babies, I vowed to maintain some semblance of sartorial integrity, no matter how exhausted I was. I mean, how hard is it to do a quick blow dry, throw on a cute little shift with some fun little flats and head out the door? Turns out it’s harder than getting a stimulus package through the Senate.

So it was with great shame and embarrassment that I found myself at Starbucks one day wearing food-stained sweats and generic gym shoes, with my hair pulled up in a scrunchie. As I sat there eating my words along with a blueberry scone, I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Or at the very least that they wouldn’t recognize me.

I’m someone who routinely passes judgment on strangers I see on the street. I’m not proud of this habit so feel free to judge me for it. But whenever I see women in their “mom” clothes with their “mom” hairdos getting into their “mom” mini vans, I muse with a mixture of condescension and pity that they have obviously abandoned a very basic female instinct. I mean, we come out of the womb wanting to look good. Any five-year old in Hannah Montana lip gloss and glitter can tell you that. So what gives? Do we lose the inclination to appear alluring after childbirth, or does spending hours in the presence of sticky little people who don’t care whether our accessories match eventually make schlumping acceptable?

Almost every morning I run into a mom whose daughter is in the same class as mine. We don’t really know each other; we usually do the “fake smile and look away quickly” thing. This is partly because I am often in a hurry. It’s also because this mom’s daily display of cleavage is so confrontational it leaves me somewhat speechless. While she appears to have just shown up from her shift at Hooters, the woman may very well have a PhD for all I know. What I am sure of is that IQ aside, she surely does not know how to spell schlump. How can I tell? Because each day at exactly 8:12 a.m. she arrives in the first grade line up perfectly flat ironed, eyelined and lip glossed, long legs taking their provocative sweet time to reach from her very short skirt to her stiletto-heeled boots. Hate to admit it but the girl’s got it goin’ on. And to be honest, I wish she’d go away.

There was a song when I was growing up called Harper Valley PTA. It describes a small town scandal that ensues when a certain in your face mom comes to a faculty meeting wearing a mini skirt and go-go boots. I remember thinking as a kid that the song was a real hoot; Moms didn’t wear mini skirts. And they certainly didn’t wear boots. Obviously, this is no longer true. What is true is that I suddenly find myself playing for the wrong team. I seem to identify with the song’s local biddies who are prepared to stone any mom who dares to look like she’s actually still having sex. Plus, let’s face it. No matter what you’re wearing envy is never flattering. So I decided to stop being critical, suck in my muffin top and go over and say hello to the woman I’d spent most of the year giving stink eye to. And guess what? She was so friendly and down to earth, she invited me out for coffee and now we’re BFFs!

Yeah that never actually happened. After I said hi to her I kind of wandered away and we’ve never spoken since. But I have made some positive changes. I attempt a blow dry at least two mornings a week, maybe a little lip gloss on good days. Still working on the cute little shift and flats. Other days I take the kids to school in the same sweats I slept in. But strangely I’m O.K. with that. When I schlump over to Starbucks for a soy latte and blueberry scone, I don’t mind if somebody I know sees me. But to be honest, I still hope that perhaps they won’t recognize me.