|Proudly, too, right down to the tights around the head|
Time stands still. It will always, I am convinced of this in 1984. I have been walking tall and sniffing pies in heaven, as my grandmother used to tell me in Spanish, ever since.
Flash forward to a morning when getting ready to take teen DDG* son clothes shopping, I pull on my 15 year old cowboy boots, stand up, and I say, "All ready. Let's go."
And, he says, the words that freeze any woman in her tracks: "You're going like that?! Mom!?"
All kneejerk responses run through my head:
- never let them see you sweat
- they sense fear
- don't lose your dominance
- speak with confidence
- maintain the status quo
- do NOT buckle
- keep your pole position
But I'm a woman, my appearance is my weak spot. I eek out,"Whaaaat, whaaa---umm, is it that you mean, honey?"
"Mom. The way you look. You need a trip to the mall, not me."
A woman and her appearance. Put the two together, and the images of how you still see yourself fight to be heard first:
I was hot!
Here, see? A picture in case you don't believe me.
Wait, go ask your dad. no. don't.
I've got loveletters upstairs that would sear your young eyes!
I once had to double book 2 dates for the same night, little boy.
You can't imagine ...
But, no...no well adjusted, normal, grounded mom would ever go there with her child. He already had enough terror in his voice, I couldn't dump my stuff on that poor thing. No. I would work this s**t out.
It's time for the truth to be the truth that needs to be faced. No more hot mama days. There it is.
The parts are starting to fall off, and plastic replacement is not a possibility in our household. Time for age appropriate hairdos, professional hair coloring-- no boot black done at home die jobs, time for shirts that cover the belly, and belts that prevent diaper butt.
Time to remember that when you let your hair down after it's been up in a rubber band all day, that you look more like Crazy Mary that roams the streets downtown mopping the bridge, then you look like a flower child.
I have often told my husband that you can tell what the year was when a person was plucked out of the dating game, by the bust-a-move they pull on the dance floor. Frozen movements in time, they will forever be doing the very last bump and grind they were popping and locking it to, before they were picked up, and plunked down into their new life.
Me? I'm still doing Madonna's "Holiday" skip~skip~shoulder lift~shoulder lift.
I let my son suggest what to wear, and replace the cowboy boots with the Danskos he likes better. (in my mind, I'll always be Thelma and Louise).
We get to the mall, and head toward the stores he likes best: H&M, American Eagle, Aeropostale. We pull the double doors open, enter, and begin to walk the long corridor. All heads turn.
They are on him.
Yes, DDG*, your turn, baby. Your turn.
*Lady Di would call Prince William DDG, short for Drop Dead Gorgeous. I have always loved that.