It Finally Happened To Me…I Just Don’t Know When

I died today. Ok, not really.  Just my pride. My old, shriveled up pride. There’s nothing like being told that you’re wearing Mom Jeans, especially by some cute young chick in their 20’s…who happens to be wearing low-rise skinny jeans. Beeyotch.  So, after posting that I was going to address the issue of having too many jeans, and simplify my life by removing the clutter in my closet, I gathered all my jeans and sorted them into three piles. Keep. Donate. Sell.  Pretty simple.  My absolute Favorite Jeans went back into my closet, neatly folded. My “I can’t wear these anymore because of some reason” Jeans went into the donate to Goodwill pile.  And lastly, My “I can’t believe I paid this much money for these, let’s see if I can little somethin somethin for them” Jeans were taken to a popular franchised consignment store. The sun was shining as I pulled up to the store, my face was beaming brightly with a really big smile.  I felt really proud of myself for following through with what I said I was going to do.  I mean, I found jeans that still had tags on them for goodness sake, Do you know how hard it was to not negotiate with myself to keep them?  Believe me, it was hard.   As I opened the store door, I was greeted with a bright smile and a happy hello from a perky young lady behind the counter who was folding clothes.  She cheerfully asked me if this was my first visit to their store as I walked over to her.  “Yes”, I said, nodding my head up and down as I hoisted my bag of jeans onto the counter.  I glanced around the store, as she enthusiastically explained the store’s selling policies and procedure.  When she was finished, she took my bag and told me it usually takes about twenty minutes to inspect the clothing, so I was free to take my time looking around the store.  I went from aisle to aisle lazily, waiting for the minutes to pass. I saw some really cute things that I liked, but realized that it would defeat the whole “cleaning out my closet” thing that I was trying to do. With six minutes remaining,  I decided to walk over to the jeans section just to take a peek. Just as I was reaching for a pair of beautiful dark blue wide leg denim jeans…I was called up to the counter.  I was already calculating in my mind, how much money I was going to receive from my jeans and what I was going to do with it. Hmm,should I get a massage? Maybe some new body lotions or, perhaps a new bottle of  perfume? New makeup from Sephora? Or um… how about nothing. nada. nil…zilch.

Time stood still for a moment.

“Ma’am?” I just stood there. “Ma’am, your bag?” Confused, I looked towards the voice. Who was she talking to?  Was she talking to me?   Was I the Ma’am, she was referring to a few seconds ago?  Oh my God, yes, she WAS talking to me, after all, I was the only one standing there, I realized as I looked around.  I must have zoned out for a moment.  I felt disoriented, almost dizzy. She was mumbling something incoherently.  I’m sorry, excuse me, what did you say?  There it was again.  Did I hear her correctly? No, it must have been a mistake. Surely, she wouldn’t have told me that the store could not accept my jeans. “Oh.” I managed to say quietly.  She must have noticed my painfully perplexed look on my face, because she seemed suddenly flustered.  “It’s just we cater to a different kind of crowd, we just aren’t sure your jean style would sell that well, right now.”  Wow. There it was…said loud and clear.  My style was not in style.  I was no longer cool or popular…I was no longer dope or fresh.  I was now the proud owner of…*gulp*… MOM JEANS. When did that happen?  When I turned 39?   When I bought those jeans with the really really big pockets on the back because an article in Redbook said, it would make my booty look better? Or was it when my own dear mother proudly said she had a pair of jeans…”Just like yours!”  I could hardly breathe, as I grabbed the bag that held my poor uncool humiliated jeans and stumbled out of the store. I flung my bag into the car and sank deeply into the safety of leather seat cushion.  As I turned on the ignition, the mellow voice of Barry Manilow singing, Copacabana, floated from the speakers into the air.  I sighed as my eyes traveled up towards the rear view mirror.  I smiled as I turned around. There they were…two designated booster seats for two little kids.  My kids….because I AM a mom.  A very proud mom who just happens to wear jeans and loves her kids tremendously…and that never goes out of style.


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