Turning Forty-Two Tuesday: Pants Are Not Always Bullshit*

You know you've lost any fashion cred you may have had when you own something called, "formal yoga pants". Well, technically, they are the Starfish pants from Lands End. (I linked to them because I love them and recommend them even though I get no credit/money/love for doing so). Anyway, I was talking to my wonderful friend Lisa the other day and explaining why I haven't been to book club in forever. 

Me: Sometimes I just don't want to get out of my yoga pants and go out in public.

Lisa: I just wear my yoga pants. 

Me: Oh, I'm not talking about my good yoga pants, I'm talking about. . .

Lisa: The ones with the holes in them?

As the conversation continued, I realized that I have 2 levels of yoga pants: holey and formal. "Formal" meaning I wear them out in public and I work out in them and may have been out to dinner in them. The kind I would totally wear to book club, if Hot Guy didn't always seem to have rehearsal or something happening on book club nights. But it's the holey ones, the ones I would have turned into rags a few years ago, that are my favorites. 

I have not worn them in public yet, but I fear it might happen if all of my formal yoga pants are in the laundry and I have to run to the grocery store at 10pm because I've forgotten to make the brownies for the following day's class party. 

At almost forty-two, I know I'm not going to embrace lounging in jeans or other attire that is appropriate in public. Frankly, the world is pretty fortunate that I consistently wear a bra and don't run around in my flannel pajama bottoms. So either I'm going to have to patch the holey yoga pants, or buy more Starfish pants. 

Are patched yoga pants really any better than pajama bottoms, though? 

*With apologies to Aunt Becky, who might disagree. 

Why Am I Even Thinking About This?

I have no style. I won't even dignify my the clothing I've been wearing for the past few years by calling it "stay-at-home mom" style. Style implies choice. Going by what's clean and what still fits is not making a choice.

It's not like I used to be super-fashionable or anything. But I was aware of trends, aware of what looked good on me and had a certain look. Friends would say, "I saw this blouse at such and such and it's so you! You have to go check it out." I don't think anyone would say that to me today, unless they saw v-necked solid color t-shirts on sale somewhere.

It's not just that I'm pregnant, either. This has been going on far longer than that - maybe since I was pregnant with Ironflower. Even though I lost most of the weight that time around, my body had changed. And my life certainly had. Comfort began to take on a much bigger role and spending money on clothes for myself made me feel guilty when I had a closet full of clothes that would fit me if I ever started eating sensibly again. Which I swear I'm doing after this one is baked.

But even supposing I do manage to lose all this weight (meaning the baby weight and the chocolate weight I'd gained since we moved), I still won't know what the hell to wear. Before, I had work clothes (casual with an edge), club clothes (Black, short and/or sparkly) and sweats. Since I'm not going to work outside the home for a while and you couldn't pay me to go into a club, I'm really lost. I fear matronly clothes and clothes that have to be ironed.  I don't actually want to wear sweats ALL the time.

Every time I want to look decent, I wear a black shirt, jeans or a denim skirt and black boots. It's not that I don't like the outfit, but I've been wearing it for five years. I generally hate the outfits I see in fashion magazines. Where should I look for inspiration?

(Don't ask me why I'm obsessing about this now, when looking like anything but a giant pear is months away.)

How To Lose Your New Best Friend In Ten Minutes Or Less

Imagine that you see a tallish person wearing a teased wig. The person has orangey-red lipstick and eyeliner that looks like it was done with a Sharpie. The person is wearing black pants with gold pinstripes, a tight black t-shirt and a black jacket with rhinestone buttons and a fur collar. Clear plastic heels adorn the person's feet.

Now imagine that you are seeing this person walk into the playground where your children are playing.

Do you think, OMG, there's a drag queen at the park! Maybe she'll want to be friends and I won't have to hear the tenth birth story of the morning! Maybe we can go to a gay club over the weekend - I've so missed them. What will I wear?

Maybe that's just me.

But wouldn't you get a little bit of a thrill if a drag queen (and his/her grandchild) showed up at the playground when you were bored to tears?

Now imagine that as you get into a conversation with said drag queen, you realize that she has no Adam's apple. And her voice sounds naturally high-pitched. And the child calls her, "Grandma". And to your horror you realize that this "drag queen" you wanted to befriend is just a woman with really, really, bad style.

Do you still attempt to make friends with her, or do you casually wave as you go to your car?

At least I smiled as I waved.