a prologue

In an attempt to ward off the mayhem that has defined these past few weeks I lifted my new tunic dress out if it’s bag.

I would wear a new dress. I would cinch it with a belt. I would pair it with my favorite boots. I would take on this day.

While I was pulling together all levels of fabulous, Ava walked in, “What is that?”

“Blue tights.”

“You can’t wear blue tights.”

“Why not?”

“Mamas don’t wear blue tights.”

the high

Two hours later I carried Jude over a sea of mamas and babies at Tuesday Morning Baby Story Time to an open spot in the back of the bookshop.

I settled him on the floor between discarded mittens and forgotten cheerios and began to take off my coat. The lady to my left stopped bouncing the baby on her lap and looked up at me, “Are you a fashion designer?”

“What? No.”

“You design clothes?”

“No.”

“But you are some kind of designer.”

“No. I mean, in my dreams. Sometimes.”

There you go, sweet Ava. This mama can wear blue tights!

the low

An hour later I was pushing Jude in a cart through the throngs of Thanksgiving meal shoppers at Trader Joe’s. At some point between explaining to Jude that the buckle on the cart was irrevocably broken and he was going to have to ride freestyle and asking the third friendly Trader-Joesian if they still carry Bistro Bisquit, I sensed that something was slipping.

My blue tights were falling down.

I tried to give them a discreet tug, but my dress was so silky that I couldn’t get a grip.

I hurried along hoping that they would stay put. But the faster I walked, the faster they fell.

I frantically started looking for a quiet little corner in which I could hike them up, but there were cart pushers everywhere. They were coming out of the end caps and holiday displays.

And it was Tuesday, shipment day. It seemed like the entire TJ staff was was crouched down stocking cans and canisters on the bottom shelves.

I made a dash for the bathroom. The line was two deep. It would put my compromised outfit in full view of everyone checking out.

My heart was palpitating. My palms were sweating. And my tights were traveling south.

I escaped to the pasta section. No one is deliberating between marinara and Alfredo on November 22nd. It was in this pause that I realized two things.

One, I was stuck in the middle of a crowded store surrounded by lots and lots of people (yes, I realized that “crowded store” implies lots and lots of people, but I need to be sure we are clear on the crowd factor) from which I could not magically disappear.

And that the hem of my dress, the waist band of my tights, and my knees were all perfectly aligned.

My tights had fallen. To my knees. My knees. My tights were at my knees. My tights were at my knees.

Pride goes for the fall, people. Pride goes before the fall.

Ava was right. This mama cannot wear those blue tights.