Let me start by saying that I hate the word “fashionista”. Loathe it. I have never referred to myself as one until this very moment. However, this is the only word that seems to appropriate at this time.
If you were to look at a picture of me from 2012, what you would see is that I am:
- Tan. A tad orange, due to an excessive amount of tanning, but in the photo my pigment does not resemble wax paper like it does now.
- My hair is fixed. Most likely in an oversized, obnoxious “pouf”. Southern style.
- My makeup is on and I am ready to take on my day (all of my makeup, not just mascara and zit cream) I’m looking decent and feeling confident.
- I have on a great, clean outfit that I had put a lot of thought into. I’m even wearing dangly earrings because no one was there to rip my earlobe in half in 2012.
- I have abs. Like, really good, defined ab muscles. (I feel like it’s ok to brag about this right now, considering I can’t see a single ab anymore. It’s ok if you brag about what you used to have, just not what you have now… I’m sure most of you will agree. K, cool.)
Modestly put, I looked good in 2012.
These days I still get out of bed eager to conquer the day ahead (after I’ve had my coffee…. before the coffee, I don’t want to conquer anything except more sleep), but I just look slightly different.
And by slightly I mean astronomically. My apologies for being vague.
For those of you who don’t know me personally, I have a degree in fashion merchandising, which is hilarious. I can’t even say it without a small giggle, considering the gross fact that I am writing this at 3 pm wearing the same shirt I slept in. Sick, Who does that?
Me. All the time.
#noshame (well, some shame. I mean, I should go change, it takes like, six seconds to change a shirt.)
I used to love clothes. I looked forward to picking about the ultimate clothing combo, wondering what shorts, skirt, or skinny jeans would compliment my newest top. Now, I can’t give my outfit more than three seconds of my time. There is no “selection” really, the universe picks for me. Whatever is in front of my face and can be thrown on my pale, flabby body the quickest is what I wear (it’s actually a very stress-free process).
The only complaint I have about this universe- selection method is that I often find myself wearing a dirty shirt with an unfortunate crusty barf spot or my personal favorite, the leaky boob stain. When I forget to toss my soiled shirt into the dirty hamper where it belongs and instead sling it over my closet chair….. well, that’s when this method fails me.
I see it. I grab it. I smell it (obviously motherhood has weakened the ole’ sniffer, the poop chemicals have demolished one of my five senses) and then I throw it on only taking the time to make sure it is not inside out.
Because having a dirty shirt on inside out would be mortifying.
I still do love clothes, but one specific genre of clothing suits me best.
Those of you who are childless, let me clue you in on something… to a mom, spandex pants are gold. Better than gold. You can’t wear gold, except in jewelry form and no mom wears real gold unless they enjoy losing it. Gold is dumb and worthless, but spandex pants, those are a real treat. In my spandex pants, I am ready for anything that my tiny beasts may try to throw at me.
Someone decides to vomit on me? Barf wipes right off. Do I need to cram myself in the backseat of my car to nurse the baby? Well, spandex pants are extremely stretchy, giving me all the slack I need to be able to achieve any ninja pose necessary. If I need to suddenly sprint (geez, I hope not), then I’m ready.
Not only are they practical, but you can trick the whole world into thinking that you just worked out. Little do they know that sweat on my brow is because my child just crapped his pants and I forgot an extra diaper. I’m awaiting a meltdown and this makes me sweat. I have not worked out in days… fooled you dummies.
Yes, we moms dig a great pair of spandex bottoms, but not just any pair. Every mom finds that one brand that they love and they stick with it, buying five pairs at one time. Mine are a capri-legging from Target. They are tight up top where I need them to be, and more forgiving in the back. I don’t want my spandex to be too tight on the keister. I may compromise my appearance in many ways, but I will absolutely not succumb to mom-ass.
Mom-asses are flat, gross and ruin everyone’s day. I’ll wear barf proudly, but I draw the line at mom-ass.
So, how did I get here you ask? How did I go from wearing sleek, trendy stilettos to developing an unhealthy obsession with workout pants?
I had children.
Two of them, actually, and they sent me here. I had no choice in the matter. Once I reproduced, I was toast. Doomed. Here I was, thinking I would be the “hot mom”. Yeah, I thought that. We all think we will be the exception, don’t act like you didn’t.
I’m not going to gain over 25 pounds during pregnancy! (40 pounds and 64 microwavable mac and cheese dinners later…) I’m going to wear cute clothes my entire pregnancy! (Enter sweatpants or no pants.) I’m going to always look good after children, it’s ridiculous when moms don’t take the time to take care of themselves! (I look like butt at this very moment).
All the things I said I would never be, I am. I am all of these things.
One day I will go back to caring about my appearance and my spandex pants will only be used for their intended purpose of lifting weights or taking a run around the block. (Running… better not push it. Let’s jog instead.)
But for now I will retire my heels and live in spandex because life is just more comfortable this way.
Today I just don’t have time to care…. maybe I’ll make time to care tomorrow.
-Until the next time this redhead rambles.
Stay tuned for Part II: How I broke my addiction to the spandex pant.
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