I just have a question under the category of “adulting.”
What am I supposed to be wearing at age thirty?
It’s less my age, maybe, than my stage of life.
Here’s my sitch: pregnant, postpartum, disproportionate nursing bod’, pregnant again, think-I’m-normal-size-but-not-really, back to normal (ish). Another baby wanted.
Am I given a pass to buy inexpensive clothing where sixteen year old girls waste time in line posting their Coachella pictures?
Or, is having a real-life wardrobe imperative to my being taken seriously during squabbles with our pediatrician’s front desk staff? (“Oh, you’ve been sitting in the empty room with a fevering child for over an hour? I must have not checked you in. What’s your name again?”)
Next time, I want to be like, “THIS IS A CHICO’S BLAZER, KAREN, DO I LOOK INCAPABLE OF A TERRIBLE YELP REVIEW TO YOU?”
I’ll bust out any amount to have the upper hand at a pediatrician, I’ll tell you that much.
I dislike paying $75 for a made-in-China shirt that I will ruin with hair color at my job, or Cheetohs at my other job, but I’ll break out my Southwest credit card if needs be. I’m happy to rack up enough points to get to San Juan this summer.
Well, at least Wichita.
(Below are some of my most complimented pants. I wasn’t aware they were pajama pants when I purchased them. I just assumed Kate Moss for Topshop meant English chic. I DO wear them to social events, and you SHOULD be jealous I found the only comfortable high-waisted pants ever made. Or just bless my heart.)