When I am shopping with my mother, she often says she doesn't know what style of clothes she should wear because she's still attracted to the clothes and sizes she wore in her late teens and early twenties. She doesn't know how to shop for the current trends or her current body (which, frankly, sickeningly, isn't that different than it was in her early 20s, though she doesn't believe me when I tell her this).
When I was in my late teens and early twenties and started having this conversation with Mom, and I didn't get it. Now, at 36, I am starting to.
I can still technically fit into the clothes at Forever 21 and the juniors section in Target, and I can also still pull off a lot of it. There is one trend, however, that has thwarted me to date: the skinny jean.
I know that these pants are billed as "universally flattering." But you look around, friends. You know it's not true. There is no cut of jeans that looks good on everyone. And I do not think these look very good on me. Especially in the trendy bright colors. I don't like to draw attention to my bottom half as a general rule. Or more specifically, the top half of my bottom half. From the knee down, I'm fine.
Jeff and I have both been struggling with the new narrow pant. This summer, we bought him a blazer at H&M (he tried it on, it looked awesome). And then without trying them on, I talked him into the matching skinny trouser.
At home, he tried them on. They looked awesome. But he could not bend his knees -- like, at all. And his calves, still pretty darn muscular from decades of soccer playing, were pulling out the side stitches.
We were in stitches. We imagined out a conversation with his then-engaged sister about how he got a great new suit for her wedding, but he was sorry, he would not be able to sit down for the ceremony.
A week later, we were once again in stitches -- actually, laughter turned to tears -- as Jeff had to rescue me from my boyfriend-cut skinny leg cropped jeans. I had rolled the hem up one roll too many, and tried to hitch it up over my calf to put lotion on, and then I couldn't get them back down. In fact, they stuck on my calves halfway down like a tourniquet, even with the lotion.
"Stop flexing!" my husband yelled as he tried to pull them down for me. "I'm not flexing!" I yelled back. "But I have been working out!" More giggles (cause my calves are extremely small and I never work them out), howls of pain, and then I went out for a girls night feeling sweaty, sore, and not particularly trendy.
And yet, despite all these obstacles, last week I bought two pairs of Rock Star denim from Old Navy, where all skinny jeans were only $19. How could I resist? I checked with all the sales girls to make sure I wasn't too old to wear these. I got one indigo pair, one navy. Then I realized that indigo and navy are pretty much exactly the same. My sister in law came over wearing green skinny pants. I noticed a mom at school in red ones, another in robin-egg blue.
So I returned the navy ones and got teal instead, checking again with the sales girls to make sure I wasn't too old. I discovered that in bright colors it's best to go a size up, because if something is going to be buckling across your back thighs, it should be doing it in a subtle color. I came home and wore them immediately before I had a chance to lose my nerve.
(If my mom is reading this right now, she's probably cracking up and feeling great, since she credits me with a lot more certainty and self-confidence than I actually have and likes to see me be taken down a notch. In a loving way, of course.)
Jeff liked my bright, tight new jeans. But when I joyfully told him about the "one size up" discovery, he rather unsupportively said, "You bought a pair that is tighter than these?"
Dang it. Back to Old Navy for me. Apparently I'm going a size up in all colors. But I'm doing the exchange at another location so they don't put a picture of me up in the staff room of the Irvine location: "Warning: this Woman too Old and Indecisive for Trendy Denim. Do not help her. She will just bring her pants back."
Tune in next soon for more misadventures. My next fashion goal: learn to braid my own hair. I started today. It's not going well. But this wonky braid on my crown does take the focus of my thighs.
Showing posts with label Adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adventures. Show all posts
Monday, September 23, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Adventures in the Mid-30s
Last month I celebrated my 36th birthday by being stung by a jellyfish and capsizing with my 9 year old daughter in an ocean kayak.
It was a great day.
Hubby and I took the kids for a five-day-long beach vacation in north San Diego, and we had big plans. We packed two surf boards, two kayaks, three boogie boards, four bicycles, my brand new black and hot pink wetsuit, half a bottle of gin and some limes. We chose hotel for it's location on what travelocity.com and Sunset magazine extolled as a great beach for beginner surfers. We called it Anderson Family Surf Safari.
We knew going in that the beach was famous for sting rays, so we taught the girls to do the Sting-ray Shuffle (dragging your feet in the sand thereby gently disturbing the rays rather than surprising them and incurring their wrath). We did not count on jellyfish.
In my first 45 minutes of attempting to surf the foam of what turned out to be slightly rougher waves than we planned on, a purple striped jellyfish drifted between my legs and gave me a sting the size of a human hand on the back of both my delicate little knees. I leaped from the water and did the Jelly-fish Trot up the long beach, past my watching daughters who thought perhaps Mommy had lost her marbles, to the lifeguard tower. Three unconcerned first aide professionals said, "You'll be fine. Get back in the water. Salt is the best thing."
When you've just been stung by an ocean animal you didn't even see, the last thing you want to do is get back in the ocean. But I obeyed, and it did help.
Concealing the sting from my five year old, we took a break for lunch.
Two hours later, we were back at it. My husband spend 30 minutes inflating our kayaks, and then ended up standing on the shore with our wailing five year old, who was not going over the waves in that bendy boat for anything. Smart girl. Meanwhile I pushed my precious eldest out through the surf, losing my cover-up, hat and snorkel mask from the front of the kayak in the third wave. But we made it out past the breakers and paddled around for about five minutes, then decided to rejoin the other half of our family.
Again, third time's the charm: in the third wave back we flipped over, resurfaced, scrambled for the remaining objects of clothing that were floating away from us, and made it back to the sand.
After that, we took a break for gin and tonics with lime.
What a great birthday! Even if I was taking Advil the next day for muscle aches. I may be slipping down the slope toward 40, people, but I am going down kicking. Any woman who tells me they don't see each decade birthday as a kind of watershed is either lying or has yet to turn 30. I know, because I used to say I didn't care about getting older until I turned 30. Maybe ocean kayaking and taking up surfing smacks a little of desperation -- and I did, literally get smacked around on my birthday -- but I'll take desperation over passivity any day.
Truthfully, I am really digging 36. This year, both my kids are going into full-day school, giving me a little more time for self discovery, and possibly even keeping a cleaner house. By the time I'm 46, one will be in college, and the other 16. I could start a whole new career in 10 years, and still have decades to do it. Meanwhile, I have a decade to dream up what that will be. I am so, so blessed. Also, my husband and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary just before my birthday. I look back and feel grateful to have spent my youth with a man I love so much.
Jeff and I are now dreaming up next year's vacation, this time without the kids, in honor of our 15th anniversary. I told him I don't want to just go sit on a beach somewhere; let's have another adventure. I'm thinking maybe cycling in the wine country. To date I have not proved highly skilled on a bicycle, but what the heck. I'll bring the Advil.
It was a great day.
Hubby and I took the kids for a five-day-long beach vacation in north San Diego, and we had big plans. We packed two surf boards, two kayaks, three boogie boards, four bicycles, my brand new black and hot pink wetsuit, half a bottle of gin and some limes. We chose hotel for it's location on what travelocity.com and Sunset magazine extolled as a great beach for beginner surfers. We called it Anderson Family Surf Safari.
We knew going in that the beach was famous for sting rays, so we taught the girls to do the Sting-ray Shuffle (dragging your feet in the sand thereby gently disturbing the rays rather than surprising them and incurring their wrath). We did not count on jellyfish.
In my first 45 minutes of attempting to surf the foam of what turned out to be slightly rougher waves than we planned on, a purple striped jellyfish drifted between my legs and gave me a sting the size of a human hand on the back of both my delicate little knees. I leaped from the water and did the Jelly-fish Trot up the long beach, past my watching daughters who thought perhaps Mommy had lost her marbles, to the lifeguard tower. Three unconcerned first aide professionals said, "You'll be fine. Get back in the water. Salt is the best thing."
When you've just been stung by an ocean animal you didn't even see, the last thing you want to do is get back in the ocean. But I obeyed, and it did help.
Concealing the sting from my five year old, we took a break for lunch.
Two hours later, we were back at it. My husband spend 30 minutes inflating our kayaks, and then ended up standing on the shore with our wailing five year old, who was not going over the waves in that bendy boat for anything. Smart girl. Meanwhile I pushed my precious eldest out through the surf, losing my cover-up, hat and snorkel mask from the front of the kayak in the third wave. But we made it out past the breakers and paddled around for about five minutes, then decided to rejoin the other half of our family.
Again, third time's the charm: in the third wave back we flipped over, resurfaced, scrambled for the remaining objects of clothing that were floating away from us, and made it back to the sand.
After that, we took a break for gin and tonics with lime.
What a great birthday! Even if I was taking Advil the next day for muscle aches. I may be slipping down the slope toward 40, people, but I am going down kicking. Any woman who tells me they don't see each decade birthday as a kind of watershed is either lying or has yet to turn 30. I know, because I used to say I didn't care about getting older until I turned 30. Maybe ocean kayaking and taking up surfing smacks a little of desperation -- and I did, literally get smacked around on my birthday -- but I'll take desperation over passivity any day.
Truthfully, I am really digging 36. This year, both my kids are going into full-day school, giving me a little more time for self discovery, and possibly even keeping a cleaner house. By the time I'm 46, one will be in college, and the other 16. I could start a whole new career in 10 years, and still have decades to do it. Meanwhile, I have a decade to dream up what that will be. I am so, so blessed. Also, my husband and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary just before my birthday. I look back and feel grateful to have spent my youth with a man I love so much.
Jeff and I are now dreaming up next year's vacation, this time without the kids, in honor of our 15th anniversary. I told him I don't want to just go sit on a beach somewhere; let's have another adventure. I'm thinking maybe cycling in the wine country. To date I have not proved highly skilled on a bicycle, but what the heck. I'll bring the Advil.
Friday, March 29, 2013
I Brought the Awesome
What is it with me and bringing party snacks to school?
I woke at 6 a.m. and remembered that I was signed up to bring 12 bags of popped popcorn to Olivia's "Spring Party" for kindergarten. (Side note: American five and six year olds have more fun than any other people on earth. Today will be the first of three Easter Egg hunts that my child will partake in over the next three days. And I won't let her eat half the candy or keep half the toys. Mean mommy.)
On cupboard inspection, I find I do not have any popcorn in the house. Nor do I have coffee. I drink tea (yuck), then I decide to take the girls out for bagels on the way to school and buy bagged popcorn at the grocery store. Problem: the grocery store does not carry individually bagged popcorn. In fact, our local Ralphs doesn't carry any kind of popped popcorn at all, so my idea of frantically bagging it in the car with the sandwich baggies I brought with me wouldn't work either.
So, with exactly 18 minutes until the start of school, I buy bagels, hand them to kids in back seat, drive very quickly (but safely) home, leave kids in car port with radio on (quickly detach house keys from car keys to do so) and microwave popcorn. Guess on cooking time because have somehow bought popcorn with instructions only in Spanish on the bag. Have forgotten all Spanish from college minor because too early and too tired.
Text pastor/boss while waiting; load dishes in dishwasher. Microwave beeps two minutes later; throw second bag in microwave. Shove steaming popcorn into plastic bags. Bags get slightly softer but don't actually melt. Remember to wash hands half way through (please don't tell room mom or other parents). One kid comes in from the car to go to the bathroom. Second kid comes in from the car and says first kid said she would be back in 30 seconds but she has now counted to 39, where is big sister? Microwave beeps again. Though second bag cooked exact same amount of time as first, half is burnt. Stuff last four bags with least scorched pieces of popcorn.
Come out to car and both kids are not in seat belts. Yell at kids. Drive very fast (still safely) to school and show up just in time with the scent of scorched popcorn and desperation wafting from unwashed hair. Another mom tells me I smell good. Love her. Exhale.
Meanwhile, in the kindergarten line, other kids are hopping around Olivia. What did you bring Olivia? What did you bring? Is it Easter eggs? No, it's popcorn. Popcorn? Hurray! Hurray! Popcorn! Hurray for Olivia.
Uh, hurray for mommy. But whatever, they are happy.
On my much slower walk back to the car, I am almost run over by a junior higher on a skateboard. On his shirt is printed, "I brought the awesome. What did you bring?"
Well, buddy, I brought the half-scorched popcorn in half-melted baggies. And I feel pretty awesome too.
Off to get a cup of coffee.
I woke at 6 a.m. and remembered that I was signed up to bring 12 bags of popped popcorn to Olivia's "Spring Party" for kindergarten. (Side note: American five and six year olds have more fun than any other people on earth. Today will be the first of three Easter Egg hunts that my child will partake in over the next three days. And I won't let her eat half the candy or keep half the toys. Mean mommy.)
On cupboard inspection, I find I do not have any popcorn in the house. Nor do I have coffee. I drink tea (yuck), then I decide to take the girls out for bagels on the way to school and buy bagged popcorn at the grocery store. Problem: the grocery store does not carry individually bagged popcorn. In fact, our local Ralphs doesn't carry any kind of popped popcorn at all, so my idea of frantically bagging it in the car with the sandwich baggies I brought with me wouldn't work either.
So, with exactly 18 minutes until the start of school, I buy bagels, hand them to kids in back seat, drive very quickly (but safely) home, leave kids in car port with radio on (quickly detach house keys from car keys to do so) and microwave popcorn. Guess on cooking time because have somehow bought popcorn with instructions only in Spanish on the bag. Have forgotten all Spanish from college minor because too early and too tired.
Text pastor/boss while waiting; load dishes in dishwasher. Microwave beeps two minutes later; throw second bag in microwave. Shove steaming popcorn into plastic bags. Bags get slightly softer but don't actually melt. Remember to wash hands half way through (please don't tell room mom or other parents). One kid comes in from the car to go to the bathroom. Second kid comes in from the car and says first kid said she would be back in 30 seconds but she has now counted to 39, where is big sister? Microwave beeps again. Though second bag cooked exact same amount of time as first, half is burnt. Stuff last four bags with least scorched pieces of popcorn.
Come out to car and both kids are not in seat belts. Yell at kids. Drive very fast (still safely) to school and show up just in time with the scent of scorched popcorn and desperation wafting from unwashed hair. Another mom tells me I smell good. Love her. Exhale.
Meanwhile, in the kindergarten line, other kids are hopping around Olivia. What did you bring Olivia? What did you bring? Is it Easter eggs? No, it's popcorn. Popcorn? Hurray! Hurray! Popcorn! Hurray for Olivia.
Uh, hurray for mommy. But whatever, they are happy.
On my much slower walk back to the car, I am almost run over by a junior higher on a skateboard. On his shirt is printed, "I brought the awesome. What did you bring?"
Well, buddy, I brought the half-scorched popcorn in half-melted baggies. And I feel pretty awesome too.
Off to get a cup of coffee.
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