My mom and I recently attended a fairly nice, dress-up-and-go-to-town event. It involved singin’ and dancin’, cheese and wine and cute little brownie squares with powdered sugar designs. My pajama bottoms and AC/DC t-shirt just didn’t cut it. So, I had to dig out the dresses that I own: Both of them.
I own a wedding/funeral dress. (The dad would say, “same difference, right?” and then he’d be sleeping on the couch instead of in the bed. Same difference, right?) This dress is elegant enough for weddings, but serious enough for funerals. Diamonds for the wedding and pearls for the funeral. It works!
The other dress I own is flashy and trashy, and I wear it to parties where I don’t know many people, feel totally uncomfortable and pretend that I’m Julia Roberts to The Dad’s Richard Gere, and I feel all kinds of pretty. (The Dad doesn’t know about my little charade and still doesn’t get why I insist on driving home while he stands up through the sun roof of his SUV…)
Neither dress worked for this evening out with my mom, so I opted for a skirt (that I didn’t even remember I had anymore!), a silk top and a cardigan. That’s pretty safe. For a school marm. In “Little House On The Prairie” times, right? OK, fine. By the time I figured out that I would probably look exactly like my over-60-year-old mother (except for the Hushpuppies shoes), it was too late to change. And I went with it.
The whole process of picking out an outfit was a major undertaking. I tried on dozens of items with The Daughters being very helpful by pulling every stitch of clothing I own off the hangers for me. The Dad, too, was amazing through this process; he was able to simultaneously watch the Dallas Mav’s AND game 4 of the World Series without even realizing that I was anywhere in the house. (I even think for a moment he forgot that we had kids!) Amazing, right? (I never said helpful…)
I was dressed just in time for my mom to pick me up for the event (because, if you ask my mom, I’m still not really responsible enough to drive). Then she had me drive her vehicle (because she’s old enough to catch a good nap on the 15-minute drive there).
Once we arrived at our gala (sounds more and more glamorous the more I talk about it, doesn’t it?), we had a few moments to spare and we took advantage of it to visit without The Dad or The Daughter’s interrupting and demanding things like dinner, or a drink, or a fire extinguisher.
My mother’s favorite subject when I’m dressed up? Undergarmets.
I will no sooner wear a dress to a funeral, wedding, church, an evening affair, wine tasting (aka open bar!), whatever and my mom will say this: Are you wearing a slip? It’s as predictable as the fact that tomorrow the day will end in Y. Now, she knows that I don’t own a slip. I haven’t worn a slip since I graduated from high school. And that was only because she checked me before I left the house! (She thinks I wore one on my wedding day, but it was actually a nightie. Shhhh… Don’t tell her.)
When I repeat to her that I do not own a slip (can you even buy those any more outside of estate sales???!), she’ll say, “Well you should have worn a girdle at least.” A girdle? Really? I thought those were outlawed with the Nineteenth Amendment which states, and I quote: The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex, and furthermore women shall never, ever, never wear girdles.
In answer to my mom’s question, I squish my eyebrows together and glare at her from the corners of my eyes just like I did at age six when she said I had to at least TRY the brussel sprout. Then she brings up pantyhose. “Thank heavens for control top, right?” I know at this point that she’s not even paying attention to anything I’m wearing. If she did, she’d know that I’m not wearing pantyhose because a) they haven’t made pantyhose in ‘pasty white’ since 1989 and b) panty hose don’t have stubble.
As I’m waiting to be beamed into a space ship, or for the event to get underway (whichever comes first), my mom goes for the gusto. Bras. “Maybe you should try one with a little more support.”
I take a deep breath, roll my eyes and announce to her as I reach up to adjust the strap that must have fallen off my shoulder, “My bra supports me just fine.” And I move my hand down my shoulder trying to recapture my supportive bra strap which seems to have fallen … to … my elbow? Frantically, I’ve reached my right hand all the way down to my left wrist and not been able to retrieve my fallen strap!
Calmly and coolly I grab the front of my shirt, yank it 12 inches out in front of me and peer straight down my front (a very classy technique I learned from The Dad, by the way) and discovered that my mother way correct. I did need to try a bra with more support.
Heck. I just needed a bra.
That’s right. My ta-tas were completely commando on this elegant night out.
I pulled the cardigan around me tightly and looked at my mom. “You’re right,” I stammered. “I do need more support.”
At least I remembered my panties…
Oh, wait…
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