I'm no fashion plate. This may come as a surprise to you, but Paris Hilton doesn't call me to find out what's "in" for the coming season. That doesn't mean I don't know, it only means I won't be wearing it, whatever it is.
See, I can tell you what's fashionable on someone else, or on a twig-like mannequin, or hanging on a hanger in your local department store. I've got an eye for it...really. But when it comes down to wearing it on my person, the odds are more likely I'll be struck by lightning...in the North Pole...riding a camel...to Mars.
This became glaringly apparent yesterday as I began the hunt for "non-mom clothes". I have a look. A "uniform", if you will. And it screams "mom". Actually, it screams "tired, run down, doesn't-have-time-to-comb-her-hair mom". It screams it and waves a bright, neon green banner. It yells it out in flashing neon lights on the jumbo-tron.
The problem is, in my mind, I should look something like this, but the reality is more like this. I love the new styles for the fall. The leggings, the skinny jeans, the Flashdance-esque shirts, stilletos and jeans. I would totally wear it all...if I were a twenty-year-old stick.
But I'm not.
I spent two hours at the mall yesterday looking for a miracle outfit that would instantly transform me from Supermom to Superbabe. Two hours. And what did I get?
A tank top.
To sleep in.
I think I must be out of practice.
I'm feeling desperate to lose the mom look. I want to leave the house with hair fixed and a killer outfit. I want to throw everything in my closet out and start over. I want to feel confident and beautiful instead of trying to blend into the shadows so as not to be noticed. I want to wear stilletos instead of sensible shoes.
So, all you fashionable ladies out there, give me some advice. Before I die of blunt style trauma to the head.