You know the ditty about wearing purple when you’re an old woman? I don’t think we should wait. I think we should chop up our Nordstrom’s cards (all right, full disclosure: My “Nordstrom’s” card says, “Marshall’s,” but you get my drift) and start shopping anyplace that sells white tights with bold red stripes in Queen Size.
I don’t know about you, but I have spent an inordinate amount of time in my life attempting to be appropriate. If you are a parent, you surely recognize that word.
“Sweetie, it’s not appropriate to cartwheel during communion.” (Or maybe it is?)
“Darling, it is not appropriate to see if a person can drink orange juice through a straw stuck up her nose…. I don’t care if your if your father is doing it, it’s not appropriate in a restaurant. Tim, stop encouraging her.”
Of course I think it’s important for parents to provide a bumper, of sorts, along the road to their kid’s maturity, bouncing them back onto the path when they stray too far, but now that my daughter is growing up, I’m already missing her little girl ways. A recent example:
She grew a few inches this summer, so I asked her to sort through her clothes and set aside the items she could no longer wear. She came out of her room dressed in white tights with fat red stripes. I hadn’t seen those in a couple of years.
“From now on, Mom, I want solid colors, not stripes or flowers. It’s more grown up.”
“Okay.” I sighed, thinking she looked so dang cute in her Cat-In-The-Hat tights. “We’ll get solid colors.”
“Hose, not tights.”
“Ah. Hose.” I nodded, the sadness undeniable.
“Yeah.” She looked down. Gave her striped legs an affectionate stroke. “I could still wear these sometimes, though,” she ventured. “But just to special occasions. Like weddings.”
“Yes, that would be awesome.”
Do you know of any weddings we could crash? ‘Cause I really want her to wear those tights again before it’s too late. I’ll be wearing a pair, too, beneath my uber-appropriate wedding attire. I may have to paint the stripes on a pair of opaque white pantyhose, but I am determined to have Cat-In-The-Hat shins. Now that I’m forty-nine with a bullet, maybe I can let go of the correctness of my youth. Express myself more. Fit in less.
The Broad With The Cat In The Hat Tights