Fitting Room

A couple of weeks ago, I stranded myself on the Island of No More Shorts which was not hard to do since I owned two pairs of shorts that fit. Shorts Pair One, a red and white striped long short from ATay Loft were even a little tight around the waist, but they were the only casual pair in the rotation. Shorts Pair Two are just a pair of nylon joggers, unfit for pairing with certain tops. So off Baby Girl and I went to Target for the trying on and purchase of a new pair of shorts for the rotation. I know you are wondering how I got to Target if I was stranded on the aforementioned Island. And thank goodness Baby Girl is chunky enough to hold in front of me as I walk through parking lots pantsless. Hey-oooo.

I will spare you the "I Cannot Believe How Much My Body Has Changed" spiel, but as I attempted, in the manner of a competitor in a potato-sack race, to try on shorts, I still could not believe the audacity J.Lo had in trading her post-preg body for my petite one. What was I to DO with these rumpled curves, so unseemly and difficult to negotiate non-elastic waistbands? Somewhere, J. Lo is bouncing a twin babe on each of her knees and getting mad compliments about her tautness, but why are her ankles so white and bony?

Anyway, as I was examining the folly of a size that rhymes with Twix and how my closet will not be filled with Twixes for a long long time, I glanced down at Baby Girl who, I kid you not, was looking up at me with equal parts HORROR and HORROR, as though to say, "Mom, please consider not leaving this fitting room in those pants a sincere act of mercy?"

I exited the fitting room with some tears in my eyes, putting the shorts back with the fitting room attendant. To no one in particular, I said, "I guess I am not the size I used to be!" a woman with an infant in a stroller perked up and said, "Oh please, I know!! I'm just so wiiiide!" That made me feel so much better, better enough to even find two pair of shorts that fit. In one day, my shorts wardrobe increased by 100%.

***

I later captured the face of Baby Girl had given me earlier in the fitting room.

J. Lo, eat your heart out.

Senior Moment

The woman who is working the front desk looks up to see us and probably assumes we are there to visit a great grandparent. So she opens the door without hesitation, and I'm thankful because I can't figure out how to open it myself without bumrushing it with the stroller. I know she's probably a resident and doesn't have the scoop on all the activities, but I ask her anyway.

"Do you know where the mom's group meets here?"

She looks puzzled, her glassy eyes squint behind thick lenses, as if to say, Honey, the only mom's group here are for moms that are post-menopausal.

I'm not sure if I should waste my time elaborating, but I do so anyway, "See, I read this thing about a mom's group here? Where you can bring your baby and meet all the residents?"

A baby boomer and his father are sitting on a bench watching this go down and they say, "Wow, that's a nice idea!"

I agree it's a great idea. Which is why I've dragged my infant here in the stroller on a rainy day to look for the moms group. That meets at the assisted living facility.

The assistant director of the facility comes out and I ask her if there is a moms group that meets here. She gives me a look like Man I've heard some crazy things today, but this is the loonbaggiest thing I've heard all week. A mom's group that meets at the blue hair corral.

I tell her I've written down the information and she says she's going to show the boomer and his dad an apartment here and when she gets back, she can help me investigate this further.

So Baby Girl and I sit out in the lobby and perform ad hoc duties as the Wal-Mart Greeters of the assisted living facility. We meet Ethel who's just come back from Kohl's with a bright orange sweater. And Doris who just heard about Flo's accident, having mistakenly pushed the gas and not the brake. We meet Robert who asks Baby Girl if she, too, has come to rent out a room.

And with every exchange, Baby Girl studies the ruddy but wrinkled faces. She looks intently. They ask her if she's going to give them a smile and I think, No, I'm sorry, but you have to spread wide your dentures grin if you want a smile. She's an equal exchange opportunist. But it warms my heart, this series of impromptu tete-a-tetes.  Maybe there is no formally scheduled Bridge at the facility that day, but herein we are participants in an intergenerational bridge built spontaneously at an assisted living facility - where 3 years ago there may have been a mom's group that met but whose internet site is no longer updated - on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

Thanks for the add?

Sometimes I am guilty of getting lost in the virtual catacombs of Facebook and minutes turn into half hours as I ogle profiles and try to ascertain whether the faces I am seeing in the albums are indeed the present incarnations of my junior high schoolies (who always impress me with their ability to transcend the 1993 fashion of Umbro shorts and Samba Classics). I am sure I am not the only one guilty of this, in fact, I am fairly certain this is one of the chief motivating factors for creating facebook, along with the other chief purposes: 1.) To allow former classmates, co-workers, and people who lived in Bunk 3 at Camp Holeefolee in 1987 to reconnect with relative ease. 2.) To create something useful to millions of people that will net you bonjillions of dollars all before you graduate from undergrad you brilliant piece of Ivy smartypants. 3.) To cause SAHMs to feel even more guilt than they already do for spending time on the internet. Joining groups like "Stroller Discrimination Hurts All of Us."

Lately, I've been thrilled to reconnect with several of my junior high schoolies and it's fun to wax nostalgic about the daze of polyester skirts and peanut butter sammies, but part of me still sees these exchanges through the narrow scope of pain that junior high entailed. And while it's fabulous to have that lad whose yearbook message, penned so thoughtfully, "Student Council was fun, have a great summer!" which I read four times a day during that great summer as if one day the words were going to change and suddenly say "And I'm sorry we weren't better friends, because I always thought you were the coolest girl in class, will you marry me?" -- I just can't help but think:

a. My knockers weren't big enough for you to talk to me then, why are you e-friending me now? b. Are you looking at the pictures of me pregnant and wondering where I got those big knockers? c. Is the fact that I have big nursing knockers part of the reason you are e-friending me now?

I just can't help but wonder. I guess that is why it is called facebook and not philosophacebook.