Where I Draw the Line

I know now why middle aged women begin to wear questionable clothing. Sequins, stretch pants (hopefully not the same outfit), weird jeans, etc. It’s not because they’ve suddenly gone blind or lost all fashion sense. It’s because their teenage daughters have begun raiding their wardrobe. These women haven’t given up on looking good, they’re just desperate to have something in their closet that will still be there when they go looking for it, something their teen wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I can now relate.

She’s not after my jewelry, I know that. There’s only one thing of value, and I’m not sure she’s all that interested in a macaroni necklace. And I don’t worry about my jeans. She weighs about 12 pounds with rocks in her pockets. I weigh closer to 15 pounds, you know. And she’s not interested in my makeup. Because I don’t actually have any. Well, I do. but a half-tube of mascara I got free from Earth Fare last year and some eye shadow left over from the last century don’t seem to speak to her. Weird, I know. The things that are disappearing from under my nose are my tops.

I give her credit. She does ask before she borrows. Except for my Birkenstock clogs, which I know are hidden away in her room somewhere, and I will find them or die trying. I told you Birkenstocks are cool!  I digress. She asks. But it still bugs me. She raided the storage shelves yesterday and emerged bearing an armload of treasures, which, to add insult to injury, she proceeded to model for me. It is really unfair that they all look so much better on her. They were are mine. The really cute oversize sweater makes her look like an adorable little elf. The same garment makes me look like the Michelin man. The old sweat shirt makes her look all cozy and comfortable. It makes me look like I’ve given up on life.

Fine. She can have them. I can’t wear them again knowing how good they could look (but don’t). And she uses lots of products from the Lotion and Smelly Stuff Works, so she has effectively scent-marked all my sweaters. We know I won’t be wearing those again.

It’s not all bad, I guess. In a way, it’s validating. My taste can’t be too far off if my kid wants to wear steal my clothes. And there’s plenty more where that came from. All I have to do is go back to the thrift store to replenish the wardrobe. But this time, she went too far. She asked to wear my Slytherin t-shirt.

Is nothing sacred?

She has yet to ask to borrow THIS sweater. It is made from genuine boomkin pelt, I think.