Fashionista...Not

Did you see that episode of Project Runway, in which the fashion designer Vincenzia had to create a contemporary cultural commentary using various fabrics and icons? The model's too short shorts had a "Bob the Builder" logo, the funky pajama top had a green T-Rex, the jacket tossed haughtily over the shoulder had a light-up Spiderman that blinked and pulsed with every shimmery movement down the catwalk, and the model wore brown with orange crocs... on the wrong feet.

Ok... That wasn't Project Runway. That was my 3 year old in the emergency room last night. (I don't even watch Project Runway, so my apologies if I might have misrepresented the show, a little.)

The emergency turned out okay (x-rays, no foreign objects, heavy hitter antibiotics), but sitting in that waiting room holding a child in that "get up" got me thinking about my own blue crocs at home, even though I wear them on the right feet.

I shouldn't be so misleading; I can appreciate beautiful fabrics and artful design. It's just that I've never been a slave to fashion. It's hard to care about quality clothing when a nice blouse is going to end up with jelly fingerprints on it, or blood. No, if I'm a slave to anything, it's laundry, and I actually don't even mind that.

Since I would not have picked this condition for myself, I'm convinced I've been wired for it since the beginning of time, prepared and genetically inclined to not fuss too much. What else could a Junior High girl evolve into when she wears a Women's size 10 shoe in the 6th grade? (I got a brief reprieve when the Unisex style of the late '70's was widely accepted, but even a Men's 8 shoe still made my big feet look, well, really big.) My mother's efforts to comfort, offered with an eye wink, were of little consolation: "Oh, you will have even greater under-standing!"

(Prophetic? I wear a 13 now. It is all her fault!... even if I do have greater understanding).

I can remember the angst of shoe shopping, needing to go to "special" stores that only carry "old lady" orthopedic styles. (Nothing against those shoes; I'll legitimately need them some day). I died a thousand deaths and suffered even more disappointments; I'm sure I made my mother suffer too, or at least I tried. As a result of never having anything trendy to wear on my feet, the rest of my closet naturally followed suit.

I never thought I would be thankful for it, but I am. My life would be immeasurably more difficult if I were too fussy about things, or attempted to keep up pretenses more than I already do, albeit futilely. The jelly on my shirt? It might come out, or not.

I think I'm a better mother for it, but my children are threatening to nominate me for What Not To Wear.