Last week I had an interesting Wall-to-Wall conversation on Facebook. 

The lovely mother of one of Noah’s friends (who is also MY Facebook friend) commented that she needed a gown for an upcoming party, to which I offered her a foray into my closet which is …ahem… replete with party dresses. She could borrow one.  I went on to tell her how much I love, love, love buying fancy dresses. Her response was:  “That’s funny.  I didn’t think of you as the ‘party dress type’.”

The comment certainly did not offend me.  Whenever this woman sees, me I am wearing my standard, Mommy-to-the-stars, suburban-issued uniform comprised of some combination of yoga pants, sweat shirt, ripped jeans, hoodie, sneaks or Merrills.  I may have five outfits that I wear during the week.  It’s easier than Garanimals.  On days when I am feeling fancy, I wear cargo pants.  My husband owns more shoes than I do.


But her comment got me thinking:  Who is the party dress type?  This was a topic worthy of discussion last night over sushi with said husband (who also agreed that I was NOT the party dress type but then, in response to my raised eyebrow, quickly recovered and emphatically asserted that I can pull anything off.  He’s good.)

We decided that as far as Moms go, the “party dress types” look fancy — all the time.  Even their jeans look fancy because they have “special embroidery” or are worn with 3 inch heels.  They only wear sneakers in the gym – never outside. They have smooth pony tails. They never forget to pop in earrings.  Their work out clothes, including socks are pink, lime and salmon colored. Their sweaters are black, cream and grey.  Their clothes are not covered in pet hair.   They do not find themselves trying to apply eyeliner while driving 65 miles along the highway because they accidently caught a glimpse of their frightful selves in the rearview mirror.  If they ever look disheveled, it is because they planned it that way so that you will ask them if they are ok.

The opposite holds true in my home.  When I dress up, my children are visibly disturbed.  Last month on a business trip to New York I was leaving the house in a leather skirt, white sweater, and knee high leather boots.  Chase took one look and remarked, “well that’s just all wrong.”  Given that this dig was coming from a 9 year old who still can’t match his clothes, I assumed he was referring to how smokin’ his mother looked.  But I still double checked the look – and changed belts after he said it. Twice.

So admittedly, I am not very fancy.  Yet, the fact remains that I still have a closet FULL OF PARTY DRESSES which I love to wear.  I would like to think that fact alone qualifies me as a party dress girl, if only on the inside.




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