This morning began on a mundane note. I felt neither happy nor sad, here nor there; I just, well, was. I was existing in a monotone hue of tan—bland but not too boring. Ten hours of sleep did little to quell the feeling of exhaustion that ravaged my body. After a late breakfast, I dragged myself upstairs, stood in the shower and allowed a pulsating stream of hot water to cascade down my body that was drooping with fatigue. The water was rejuvenating, cathartic even, and suddenly, the tangled mass of inscrutable dreams that assaulted me in my sleep were soon forgotten. I was finally ready for the day.

Cleaned, clothed and carefully coifed, I gathered my laptop, mouse, earplugs and creative juices and settled in downstairs at the kitchen table for a morning of writing. But wait…

I felt like I had forgotten something. Ah, yes . . . my phone.

As I walked through the living room towards the outer entry hall, I opened the door and stopped in my tracks like a fawn mesmerized/petrified by a hunter’s gun. I loooked at my reflection in a full length mirror at the back of the wall. It wasn’t the mirror that was so surprising, but what was cast back at me in the cursed looking glass.

With my mouth ajar, I slowly turned to the side, all the while keeping the me-that-I-hoped-wasn’t-me in my sights. I pivoted to the other side, faced front, looked down at myself, placed my open hand on my stomach, clenched my fingers around the fabric of my shirt, pulled it up then gazed back at my reflection. I gasped in horror and clamped my hand over my now fully open mouth.

I was wearing mom jeans. What the hell?!?

How had I allowed myself to slip into this horrible abyss of fashion faux pas?

Where it All Began

Ahhhh, now I remember. It all began eight years ago when I purchased a cute pair of jeans (or perhaps, as I’m now firmly ensconced in the valley of midlifedom, should I refer to them as dungarees?). The jeans had a decorative scroll pattern that ran the length of the leg from hip to ankle on either side. I thought, “How adorable,” and purchased them on the spot. They promptly fell out of favor after one or two turns out of the closet, and I soon forgot about them.

Fast forward to one year ago. As my husband and I moved house first from Stamford, CT to Marietta, GA, and then again six months later to Cramerton, NC, many of my unworn, out of fashion, too small and too large clothes made their way to the Goodwill heap. These jeans, obviously, did not.

One week ago, as I packed for my two week trip to Holland and England, I made the fateful decision to toss the dreaded jeans into my suitcase. Not once did I ever try them on to see if they fit, nor did I chance a peek at myself in the mirror while holding the high-waisted, nine-inch zippered abomination against my body. This, it would appear, was my undoing.

While I dare not show you what a hideous transformation occurred when I put on my mom jeans, there’s no need to fret. I now direct your attention to Exhibit A, below:

I should point out the irony in my wearing mom jeans: I’m not a mom in the “I carried a baby around in my body for nine months then gave birth to a cute little bundle of joy” sense of mom. Granted, I am a stepmom, but I think there may be a clause in the Mom Jeans By-Laws that expressly stipulates that “Mom Jeans are to be worn only by biological moms.” It would seem that I have committed an infraction on the grandest order.

My husband, bless his heart, looked me dead in the eye this morning and had the gall to say, “They don’t look that bad…as long as you keep that thing there,” he motioned with his finger, “that top part covered up.” The look on his face would suggest that he had just eaten a bitter piece of fruit. Despite that, his suggestion likely wouldn’t be a problem since the jeans sit comfortably just under my breasts. Yes, they’re that high.

Is it time for me to turn in my fashionista membership card? I think not. When I get back home to the States next week, Goodwill will welcome me and these mom jeans with open arms. There, they will certainly find a good home from a caring, loving mom.

When it comes to mom jeans, I am not the woman and this is not the year.