Now that I’ve lost the lion’s share of the baby weight – and yes, I WILL call it baby weight even though my daughter is two – I’ve taken to shopping again. For clothes, I mean. Clothing is more fun when you’re not staring at the tag, weeping about the number there.
(I learned to cut off the tags, but it didn’t help)
So there I was, at The Target, perusing the summer stuff, when I saw it. The Maxi-Dress.
Pranksters, I wanted so badly to love this dress. It looked like it would provide a nice crotch breeze while allowing me to continue my “pants are bullshit” campaign. And yet. I couldn’t.
My mother, a hippie in the 1980’s, lived in these things when I was a child – the very sort of thing I railed against. It was droopy and unpatterned, listless and tired, even fresh off the clothes line. As someone who favored twirly skirts, tiaras, and all the makeup one could slap on a face, I was horrified that my very own mother would wear such monstrosities.
Examining it closer, I realized that, like capri pants, the dress would look good on no one. Except, perhaps, models.
So I put it back, sadly denying my crotch an opportunity to vent in the breeze.
And then I saw this:
Have you seen these, Pranksters? ROMPERS. FOR ADULTS.
If I could manage to somehow get over the issue that these are ROMPERS for ADULTS, all I can see is the vagina wedgie you’d get while wearing this monstrosity. I mean, CAMEL TOE anyone?
Even worse, they’re ROMPERS for ADULTS.
I stopped wearing rompers at the same age that I stopped wearing diapers. Perhaps when I WEAR diapers again, I’ll go back to wanting to dress like an overgrown child. But somehow, I doubt it.
And don’t get me started on pajama jeans.