Mom blog: Morning wardrobe malfunction

I have mentioned the full-time work in an office after two and a half years staying home? And the fact that it’s only a five-month contract (for which I thank my parents, my god, my lucky stars and my own perseverance every day)? Well, after running through my dress-for-success ensembles, I have hit what I think is an all-time low in office dressing.

MEETING MYSELF ON THE STAIRS
It is the dash-for-the-door at 8:45—one kid gone on foot, one kid refusing to go, littlest kid building Lego in the front hall with a jacket half on and school bag and lunch bag not in plain sight. I race up the stairs looking for my cellphone (why I took it to bed I’m not sure). I check my room, the bathroom, daughter’s room for the pocket of my bathrobe, then back downstairs, cellphone in hand. I can feel something constricting around my ankle, really quickly. I stop dead, look down and see a glint of light on a thread that stretches around the bottom corner of the stairs and shoots right up the stairs. It’s taut, but it’s not strangling my ankle. The thing that is strangling my ankle is a similar thread running down the stairs and ending in a puckered mess at my leg. It’s my pant-leg hem thread. I have no hem on the right pant-leg. Aaaarrraaggghhh!! Time is ticking.

WARDROBE MALFUNCTION
I race upstairs, trying to grab at the thread stretching from room to room. I don’t have a big house, but my god, how much thread does it take to hem a pant leg at Louben?? Off with the pants, on with the grey pants. I look too fat. On with the black pants. Salt stain at the back (have I not worn thee since there was snow? Did I hang them up wet? Is the material eaten clean through by now?). On with the jeans that fit. Too pale, too casual. On with the dark jeans that don’t fit. They accommodate my shapely (HAHAHAHAHAHA) butt, but hang at the waist. No time now to find long shirt—must find belt. Remember belt-burning/disposal when I decided my waist was not worth defining—no belts in house. My almost-fourteen year-old son has belts—with belt buckles of a boom box, flying eagles, a skull that says “live fast, die young,” a keyboard with white and black enamel keys, a turntable in cubic zirconia that really spins, a black and white enamel checkerboard—like I said, not a belt in the house.

SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS TO THE RESCUE
But, I do have ribbon. That strikes me as very Martha, and I grab coils of wire-edged ribbon from a drawer devoted to just that—ribbon. Am I insane? Pink organza ribbon looping around my jeans? Wrench open the next drawer, and—aha!—Sponge Bob Square Pants shoelaces with Patrick the jolly pink starfish on them. One might not make it around my thigh, but two tied together? Triumph. I make one knot, lace them through, tie again, and yes, a new executive mummy look, dark jeans, grey tank, black jacket, Sponge Bob belt and did I mention the two different turquoise trouser socks? No worry, the dark jeans are too long, so with this one pair of heels I wear, no one would be the wiser. Now, where were those shoes?

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One Response

  1. That’s too funny. Haven’t we all had one one of those mornings… I spent 30 minutes hemming pants this morning only to put them on and realize the zipper was busted. C’est la vie.

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