Beloved and I got gift cards for Christmas from my parents. I dragged Beloved and the little angel into Old Navy at the mall last weekend to see if I could get a pair of skinny jeans that didn't make me look like sausage links (found some, thank you sweetheart cut). Beloved was shocked I would even try to put something from Old Navy on my body because y'all, we are old. Then Beloved insisted we go mall-walking, because the only time we go in the mall is to take the little angel to blow all her Hoggin Craft money on her burgeoning Build-a-Bear collection. 

Around the mall we went, peering in store windows. Finally, we walked out through Sears. We always park by Sears. Nobody is ever in Sears.

"What is with all this slim-fit men's clothing?" Beloved finally said. "Straight pants, slim-fit shirts? What the hell?"

I stopped walking and looked at him. He was totally serious. He was PUT OUT by the slim-fit.

I started laughing. 

BECAUSE NOW HE KNOWS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE A WOMAN IN ANY STORE, EVER.

As I sit on my front stoop every weekday morning with my girl, waiting for the school bus, I check out the fashion statements of today's children. Our bus stop has swelled to eleven kids from three in one year, thanks to some large families moving in. That's a lot of shoes.

Something seemed odd about those shoes for the longest time. Then I realized what it was -- they rotated.

I don't remember which grade I was in, but one year I had burgandy Kangaroos with Velcro AND THE POCKET. God, I was so cool. When I got a little older, I had a pair of white Nikes (NIKE! SQUEE!) with white pinstrips on the nylon. White on white, dude. I thought I was the queen of Sheba with those white-on-white pinstriped Nikes.

I don't remember wearing other shoes to school until I hit at least middle school. Elementary school was tennies, unless you were tromping around the halls in your moon boot liners in the dead of winter.

You had to choose your tennies carefully and with an eye to all outfit possibilities. All my outfit possibilities were jeans, because I also don't remember ever wearing a skirt to school on a normal day. Maybe cords, but those would also go with my tennies. My mother will read this and maybe be able to inform me if I actually wore more than one pair of shoes at a time to school in elementary, but I really don't think I did. In fact, this line of reasoning has continued on well into adulthood. Every season, I tend to buy a pair of black whatevers or a pair of brown whatevers. Maybe I'll add something cute if I see them at TJ Maxx or the rich people Goodwill, but the fact I don't buy shoes has less to do with my ability to afford them and more to do with my mindset of the One Pair of Shoes.

I realized this yesterday when I pulled out my black booties for the seventh time in a row since it got cold. I'm a shoe child of habit. A fashion nightmare. I keep wearing the same pair of shoes over and over like I'm twelve.

But these children! They have awesome shoes! Ballet flats and Converse that lace all the way up to their knees and Uggs with GLITTER. And some tennies, of course, but only on P.E. days. My own daughter alternates between tennies, purple tall Bearpaws, cowgirl boots and hot pink patent leather ballet flats. She puts me to shame.

She is nine.

I think I'm still searching for those white-on-white-pinstriped Nikes that went with everything, were comfortable and yet still made me feel refined, if there is such a thing as a refined Nike. I wasn't the only one who wore the same pair of shoes all the time -- it seemed everyone did. The standards were so much lower then.

It was easier with lower fashion standards. Bring back the one pair of shoes, people.

The little angel and I popped some tags last night. Want to see what I got?

Over the past week, I engaged in a two-state, five-store quest for a pair of jeans that fit. I tried on more than fifty pairs of jeans. In front of my seven-year-old daughter, who assured me over the course of two stores that I really didn't look right in skinny jeans. Because I'm not necessarily skinny. She wasn't being mean, she was being honest, and she was actually right. I wear the fact I didn't burst out crying when she said this as a badge of honor and body acceptance. Also the fact I didn't burst out crying when subjected to high-mounted fluorescents and knees that have fallen two inches from where they were on my body in 2009.

I'm cheap and I don't like to pay more than $30 for a pair of jeans, but my booty desires a fit I've found only in more high-end brands. Hence, I do all my jeans shopping in discount stores like Gordman's, T.J. Maxx, Marshall's and the like. My body refuses to conform to the standard jeans model, whom I'm convinced now is seven feet tall and has no gradual curve between the top of her hip and the bottom. I used to think the basketball hoop formed by thirty yards of excess material directly above my ass was due to the high-waisted jeans of the late eighties and early nineties. Now with jeans more low-rise all the time, I'm flummoxed. Surely I'm not the only woman on earth in possession of a bowling ball ass? That is what weighted lunges to you! And weighted lunges are all the rage, right? Am I practicing outdated exercise? Have we moved on to ballet football?

In every store, I would select between 8-12 pairs of jeans and sit the little angel on the little stool. She would begin to critique the fit before I got them on, in most cases. To her credit, she wasn't critiquing my body -- just the fit. "Those pockets don't sit flat, Mommy," she'd say. Or maybe "I can see your underwear."

She actually is an astute shopper. It's all about the fit, ladies. Anyone can look good if the fit is right.

I left the state of Nebraska on Monday empty-handed. Last night, I challenged Missouri and its larger T.J. Maxx to the test.

The little angel and I walked into the dressing room with eight pairs of jeans. I'd since abandoned skinny and was horrified by "flare" (Little Angel: That is like a foot and a half of material across, Mommy") so basically all that was left for a 38-year-old woman is boot-cut. I got three pairs to lay flat over my unusual butt and not cause a muffin-top. However, two out of the three pairs are about five inches too long.

My inner monologue upon discovering this:

1. I'm 5'6" and wear a size 8. I've always thought I was pretty average. Size 8s sell out really fast. Are size 8 women really seven feet tall now? Or are all the kids wearing five-inch heels to school with their jeans? 
2. Did I miss a chapter? Why am I needing to have jeans hemmed now like when I was nine years old?

HOWEVER. I was so excited the jeans fit my hips and thighs I resolved to find a tailor ASAP so I can donate the four pairs of jeans I bought in 2007 and have worn every week since then in rotation that now are so stretched-out, faded and unflattering I feel like I'm setting a new standard for mom-who-has-given-up every time I wear them.

When I was checking out last night at T.J. Maxx, the teenager who rang me up mentioned her mom wears a size 8, too. Thanks, kid. Is she seven feet tall?

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Read my review of Kim Purcell's young adult novel Trafficked on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

Tears streamed down the little angel's face this morning when I told her I thought I'd made a bad parenting decision yesterday by letting her wear the damn flats.

This was followed by the time-tested retort of BUT EVERYONE ELSE DOES!

I sat there, trying to seem impervious to her grief. I thought about the trials she has gone through these past fifteen days -- those trials of which I have not written but I'm sure many school-ager parents can guess but let's not discuss lest it come back to haunt my little second-grader -- the indignities she has suffered at the hands of her mother without as much complaint as I would've thought.

I thought about battles and which ones to pick.

I thought about how strongly I feel that she not dress provocatively and that flats do not offend my sensibilities at all, but the size 12.5 two-inch wedge sandals do.

I hemmed and I hawed as she sniffled and refused a hug.

Here's the thing I forgot to mention yesterday: She and I both have flat feet. I doggedly wore flats all throughout the eighties even though they made the soles of my feet cry out in pain. I let her wear flip flops on shortish trips this summer, but she wore sneaks and socks every day to summer camp, every time we went to the zoo, etc., no matter how hot it was. I don't know the science on flat feet and arch supports, but I know comfort.

And her feet are still growing.

Hem and haw.

Sniffle and whine.

I made her wear boots to school on an 80-degree day because she said they were the only thing that went with her sparkly leggings. 

IS THIS IMPORTANT?

So I cut her a deal: I would buy her insertable arch supports for the flats. Which I did, today. They don't have child-sized ones at CVS, but I'm hoping her feet are close enough to small adult size to make it work. I suppose we shall find out tonight. I told her if I could get arch supports that worked into her silly flats she could wear them on days she doesn't have PE.

When she was two, I let her wear twirly dresses every day to daycare as long as they had shorts under them. 

When she's fifteen, I may have to deal with bad nineties fashion come back to haunt us. 

I've decided to fight the biggest fashion battle for me: DRESS YOUR AGE. Dress like a little girl. While flats don't scream "seven years old" to me, I don't fundamentally object to them on that basis.

So I'm going to stick the arch supports in there and let it ride.