Yesterday, I disclosed the shameful fact that it took me three glasses of wine to finally realize I was wearing mom shorts.
The wine also helped me discover that the black pony I had been gazing at for two hours wasn’t even real, but that is beside the point.
Today, I thought I would break down the chain of events that caused a childless, twenty-seven-year-old woman, who normally considers herself somewhat of a style maven, to invest in mom denim.
I’m blaming this lapse in judgement on our recent move to Minnesota. By no means am I saying that the people of this fine, fine state aren’t stylish…quite the contrary, in fact. I’m simply referring to the reality of a midwestern summer– something my husband so accurately describes as “hot as balls”.
For those of you unfamiliar with such terminology, “hot as balls” = “too hot for capri pants”.
For the last several years, capri pants have been my summertime staple. All of my height is in my torso, and shorts have a funny way of accentuating my semi-stumpy legs. I also consider my thighs to be a “private part” and try to cover them at all times, aside from situations where I might find myself in a swimsuit, or at a Britney Spears concert.
In Seattle, where summers are typically mild, capri pants suited me just fine, thank you very much. Unfortunately, June in Minnesota has made it abundantly clear that capri pants quickly turn into sauna pants the moment you step out of your air-conditioned apartment. The time had come to put on a pair of shorts. After much fear and trepidation, I made my way to the deep, murky depths of my closet so that I might unearth a few pairs to get me through the summer.
But here’s the thing: shorts haven’t been a personal necessity since I was braving the humid Nebraska heat during my college years. This means my sparse collection of shorts is circa 2006, when my lower half was tad bit more…well…perky. Sure the shorts still fit…but much like my legs and hips, they don’t look quite like they did back in the good ol’ days.
Nonetheless, I opted to wear them to the movies. The older I get, the less I care about ‘ish like that. I work out, I eat healthy–if I can accept myself the way I am–so can all of the people I’ll encounter during the late night showing of The Dictator.
So, we’ve established that I don’t care all that much about the imperfections of my lower body. In contrast, I most certainly do care about avoiding STDs.
And when you’re shorts are so microscopic, you fear you might contract syphilis simply from sitting in a movie theater chair? That my friends, is when you know it’s time for some more age-appropriate summer pants.
This is how I’m justifying my recent trip to a little establishment known as Maurice’s.
Oh, Maurice’s. I thought I was better than you, but apparently, I’m slipping back into my old habits.
For those of you who don’t live in the Midwest, I would describe this teeny-bopper boutique as a smaller, more wholesome version of Wet Seal, Charlotte Russe, perhaps even Forever 21. It was completely acceptable to frequent Maurice’s during college, but now that I’m a young professional on the wrong side of my twenties?
Let’s just say I’m a little old to be shopping there.
Deep down, I think my subconscious felt that if I absolutely had to purchase the horrendous mom shorts, buying them from a store whose target demographic is Iowa sorority girls might lessen the blow a little. I ended up trying on the first pair of shorts I saw. They fit, they were comfortable, and most importantly, they would keep me from contracting STDs via an innocent-looking park bench.
I also got a free necklace for buying them.
No STD + free necklace = summer pants success.
Only after I had removed the tags from my new purchase (and laid eyes on the photo below) did I realize they were full-blown, bona fide mom shorts.
But I have a confession to make.
Right now? As I type this? I’m totally wearing the mom shorts.
And you know what? I actually
kind of really like them.
Since I was snapping photos anyway, I decided to take one of the back of the shorts. You know…just for good measure.
And that’s when it finally hit me.
These aren’t mom shorts at all!
They are instead, shorts that actually fit me properly and are appropriate for someone in their late twenties. My warped and twisted perspective had simply tricked me into thinking they were mom shorts as I have grown so accustomed to seeing myself crammed like a sausage into “shanties”.
Shorts that are almost as skimpy as panties.
It was a humbling revelation, but an important one. All this time, I’ve been walking around like one of those forty-year-old women who think they can still pull of the Abercrombie & Fitch denim mini-skirt with a crop top and Juicy Couture handbag.
Actually…I dont’ think anyone should be rocking such a look, but that’s beside the point.
The point is that I was finally able to grow up, and buy age-appropriate clothing that fits my body and doesn’t look like denim underwear.
The fact that I bought them at a store for girls who still deal with perils such as algebra, acne, and driver’s ed?
Also beside the point.
Here’s to aging gracefully.