I have this sweater. It’s one of those sweaters that I paid entirely too much money for, but it’s the type of sweater I can basically just live wrapped inside of for an entire winter season so somehow the overpriced price tag seems less than lofty. Also, it came from my daughter’s favorite store which is now no longer my favorite store because the last thing I want to do is wear the clothing all of the seventh graders are wearing and no one wants to be that mom—the one who dresses like she’s 12. I wonder if that’s been problematic for the store’s sales, now that it’s a fan favorite amongst pre-teens. But alas, I saw it and I had to have it—and I may have even bought one for my sister too.
It’s long enough to wear with leggings properly—so there’s no bum and/or crotch showing.
It keeps the outfit a labia-free zone, but also makes it super comfortable which is important for things like airport travel. It’s a go-to plane outfit for me because there’s nothing worse than having to actually unbutton your jeans on an airplane due to all of the swelling. There’s only so much undressing you can hide with in-flight magazines and Biscoff cookies. So, it’s my travel uniform.
I had my kids cop a squat in the gate area, since we were obnoxiously early for our flight. We always are, us Martells. I use the term cop a squat often, even since I heard it in Pretty Woman, but people have told me that it’s actually ‘pop a squat’ which doesn’t sound right to me and I’m going to continue to take my lexicon advice from a movie lady of the night. I also bought them French fries, since I’m not a monster.
Her: I’ll put the ketchup on.
Me: No, best not to. Why don’t you let me do it?
Her: Because there’s no reason why I can’t.
Me: I’ll give you ten reasons why you shouldn’t.
Her: I’m doing it myself. You can’t stop me.
Me: This whole independence stubborn stage is a life-long one, I guess.
Squirt. AHHH! Squirt. AHHHH! Squirt. AHHHH!
On my chest. On my arm. In my lap.
Me: Isabella, which part of my screaming convinced you to keep squeezing?!
Her: I don’t know, I guess I just couldn’t stop. I’d reached the point of no return.
Me: Do you want me to give you another reason why you shouldn’t have done it yourself?
Her: No thanks. Hey, maybe you can just pretend that it’s meant to be tie-dyed red.
Me: Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just cry over here in the fetal position.
Even though I’m painfully horrible at laundry, by some wondrous miracle, I managed to remove all trace of red tie dye.
So now I can fly again.
And I don’t have to sell Isabella.
That was a close one.