I stood in front of my closet this past Saturday night, trying to choose what to wear to dinner with my sons. It was a birthday celebration at a tasteful restaurant in Atlantic City, and I wanted to look elegant, but fun. Sophisticated, but comfortable. Polished, but not overdone.
For an hour, every outfit I tried on seemed to send the wrong message. At my age, you don’t want to send the wrong message.
Black body-con bandage dress and stilettos. Message: Maybe I’ll ditch the boys during dessert and hang out at the bar…
Pencil skirt and white button-down shirt. Message: I came from work, and if the restaurant gets slammed, I can wait on tables.
Blazer, White T-Shirt and Dark Skinny Jeans. Message: I don’t take this night seriously enough to make an effort, and I’ll be unzipping these jeans halfway through charcuterie.
Sundress: Message: I have forgotten how to dress like an adult in the summer.
Leopard print sheath: Message: I am going through a mid-life crisis, which takes place in Tanzania.
Wide-legged trousers with peasant blouse. Message: I don’t mind looking like a Lego figurine in the group photo after dinner.
Red Sheath Dress. Message: I’m trying way too hard.
White Linen Dress. Message. I thought we were going to brunch?
Black One-Piece jumpsuit. Message: I still have never accepted that I am only 5’2”.
Green Sleeveless Maxi Dress. Message. I’ve always wanted to be an Olsen sister.
High-Waisted Pleather Tights and Black Off-the-Shoulder Blouse. Message: Can you give me directions to Studio 54?
Bell-Bottom Low-Waisted Slouchy Houndstooth Pants and Black Sweater. Message: I’m thinking seriously of joining a cult.
Long Yellow Romper. Message: I am a banana, peel me.
I finally found the perfect dress, and we had a lovely time. The message?
“I’m their Mom. And I made them.”
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