Do You See What I See?

I never thought of seeing as being a subjective experience. Perception, yes, but the facts of seeing always seemed to me to be absolute. That is obviously the Grand Canyon, that is the letter A, that is the last piece of pizza. There's nothing hypothetical there. Once again, however, I am wrong and must evolve if I am to survive in the this constantly shifting anthropology of modern motherhood.

Exhibit A:
I left the house on a Sunday night. I'd spent the majority of the day doing laundry for the various humans in my home. I fold laundry, as I do most tasks of tedium, not listening to NPR as most of my neighborhood claims but in front of the TV. After the final load of laundry was put away, I left the empty laundry basket in the living room tucked up against the coffee table; partly because I didn't feel like walking upstairs again, and partly as a test. Yes, General Akbar, it was a trap of sorts. I wanted to see if anyone would bring it upstairs. I left that night to do what I do and I returned Tuesday afternoon to find the laundry basket in the same exact location; untouched by human hands or even toppled by the dog trying to get to whatever crumbs were left temptingly on the coffee table.

I say it was a trap to catch my children and husband in the act of willful laziness, but it was really a trap for good old me. There was a part of me that hoped someone would do what needed to be done, what seemed excruciatingly obvious to me; but most of me knew the basket would be there with its pathetic lonely used dryer sheet still hovering in the corner. And of course I was frustrated. No, I was mad. I actually trapped myself into being mad. My miscalculation came in the assumption that Husband and Teenagers 1 & 2 would walk into the living room from any angle and see the laundry basket. That was, in fact, my fatal flaw Aristotle.

That is when I realized that seeing is subjective.

I walk into the living room and I see:

• blankets askew and piled in violation of all magazine recommendations
• empty glasses with juice puddles waiting to be tipped and dripped all over the rug
• random bottle caps left to find their own way to the trash
• dirty socks on floors, furniture and draped on the dog
• jackets fallen from their hooks
• mail unsorted and neglected
• clumps of dog hair amassing troops in corners to wage war on my pride
• An empty laundry basket

In short, I see chaos. Chaos I have contributed to, but chaos nonetheless.

When Husband & Teenagers walk into the living room they see:

• The TV
• Places to sit and lie down
• Blankets to keep them warm
• a convenient place to find socks
• remotes
• a convenient overall location to call out to the kitchen for food and drink

In short, they see comfort.

It is the same with the piles of things on the steps intended to be brought upstairs. Even if I put the new toothpaste box or pile of paid bills, or whatever item belongs on the second floor in the middle of the steps, it is invisible. Until someone actually trips on it and then asks loudly why no one brings things up and just leaves stuff on the stairs, at which point I clench my teeth, roll my eyes and answer them inappropriately in my head.

I want to blame them so badly. I want to point out their insensitivity and laziness and selfishness, but I cannot because I gave them no opportunity to succeed. I tried to enlighten through passive aggression, a ploy universally employed and effective only in the distribution and proliferation of guilt and self-loathing. It really isn't that hard to ask someone to take the laundry basket upstairs. Much easier in fact than trying to elicit gratitude for my efforts by expecting them to read my mind and exhibit compassion the way I want it rather than the way they offer it when I'm too busy generating fury over perceived chaos.

So, I cannot blame or resent them for failing tests they did not know they were taking. I can teach them that a laundry basket is not actually a quirky design choice, I can ask them to help a mother out, and before I expect them to see the world through my eyes, I must remember to look at the world through theirs. Though the lens may be filtered by Call of Duty site scopes and clouded with Doritos residue, I will try to see what they see as I continue to navigate the terrain of this bizarre wilderness.

Boden & Foreboding

So I haven't written in awhile. You may think it's because I've been so busy being fabulous; and as much as I'd like to perpetuate that kind of magical thinking, that is not the reason for my absence. It's because I am depressed. I know, boo hoo, poor me. I'm disgusted myself, though I'm not sure if that is because of my innate sense of moral righteousness or caused by the depression, which, of course, diminishes the validity of said disgust. As a result, instead of writing witty blogs with a little message thrown in courtesy of a spoonful of my characteristic hilarity, I have been doing what you do when you are depressed but trying not to be.

I've been shaming myself into gratitude since there is suffering far greater than mine here, there and everywhere.

I've been listening to a lot of anthemic pop music.

I've been finding too much hidden meaning in movies like Mockinjay and How to Train Your Dragon 2.

I've been knitting. A lot. For a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

I've been watching too much TV and, having caught up, am seeking out new broadcast addictions.

I've cried and tried to cry.

I've browsed the extra 40% off sale page of the Sundance website frequently.

I've done the same with the Anthropologie website, but they only have 25% off sale items and, even in depression, I am plagued by my practicality.

Boden's sale page is next. (I'm actually looking at it right now whenever I can't think of what to write next.)

I'm exercising regularly because it has been said that helps. It does, briefly until I am done.

I play Candy Crush. A lot. For a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

I search job listings.

I frequent Groupon's travel deals.

I stay up too late.

I've stopped filing my nails.

I practice envy and resentment.

I add to my debt. (Usually by way of Sundance, and, momentarily, Boden)

I confide in my dog. A lot. For a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

Why am I depressed? There is no fabulous or obvious reason. Unhappy at work, failure to achieve most of my dreams, lousy parenting, brain chemistry, winter, no marketable skills, no money for this awesome whimsical Boden skirt. Take your pick. It is a decidedly mundane and whiny depression and I am not doing the one thing I should be-therapy.

It's a tricky thing to start therapy when you are depressed. It makes sense and should appeal to my aforementioned practicality, but it actually feels on par with establishing breathable air on Mars or getting my kids to understand the correlation between stiff gummy toothpaste and the act of leaving the cap haphazardly to one side of the tube of Crest. Here is the Mt. Everest I see before me:

To start Therapy I have to first find a therapist. How do I do that? Ask for references from a friend I don't mind telling that I need to be in therapy on the off chance that their recommendation is actually in network(see Boden dilemma above). Or maybe I can search my health insurance's website, make a list and start making calls. Being depressed it takes several days to work up the courage to call an office and talk to a disinterested but trained in empathy intake administrator to explain my reasons for seeking out a therapist all the while sounding like I don't need one because I fear judgement from this stranger. After one call, filled with pride and exhaustion, I reward myself with a cinnamon roll and feel confident I have made enough of an effort and can now forgo any future search or follow-through. I might even make it to an initial appointment in a weird basement office filled with shelves of action figures used for play therapy and role play, only to be further exhausted by not finding the right therapist for me, plunging me into a deeper depression. And then, a week or two later I begin again with the next name on the provider list. It may, in fact take many calls of forced nonchalance and visits to a variety of eclectic offices before I find the therapist for me, and the prospect of that kind of mental health EHarmony is daunting to the point of being defeating.

What I really need to do is start therapy when I feel good. It takes hope to start therapy, and depression and hope are not quirky friends who bring new sitcom-like understanding to the term opposites attract. It stands to reason then that I should seek out therapy during bouts of confidence, just like I should buy jumper cables before my battery dies. So, will I help myself and get into therapy? Yes. but that's not why I write this.

I write this because depression whether it feels justified or petty, whether it is triggered by tragedy or no milk for your cereal is not insignificant, wrong or a sign of weakness. Denying it because you do not feel worthy of or entitled to it does not make it go away. Shame or pride will not conquer it. Treating it seems impossible and scary and an open invitation for stigma. Because, the truth is, we don't want to need help. We've all retained a touch of that stubborn toddler defiance that repeats "No, me do it," time and time again. If I broke my leg though, I probably wouldn't wait to see if it would go away with time. If I had heart disease I might not just tell myself to get over it.

I am not writing to reveal anything new about depression or too shock you with the suffering I feel. Mine is a garden variety depression. And I still feel pathetic and arrogant for presuming I have it. I do not really believe I will make any strides in normalizing or de-stigmatizing depression. But I want to stop pretending everything's okay even though by outward appearances it is. It's not just that I am depressed, I have depression. I'm hoping experts will help with it. I am not asking for you to feel anything about my talking about it. I am not hoping you will solve it for me. I'm just saying out loud(ish) That I have it. Because saying it gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment...

And gives me the confidence to accomplish more.

Right after I add this kicky Boden top to my wish list.

Dear Everyone: My Holiday Letter

Dear Friends and Family,

So, another year has come and almost gone and it's time to relieve my guilt over not staying in touch or visiting, or calling or wishing you Happy Birthday on Facebook by catching you all up on our lives over the last 365 days.

Where to start?...?

We began last January with a goal of paying down our holiday debt by March; a worthy goal as of yet unrealized. We did manage to transfer it all to a no interest credit card that will help us realize our goal by March...of 2016. On the financial upside, I managed to save enough promotional stickers at my local grocery store this Fall to acquire two lovely Cuisinart stainless steel pans, and all for doing what we already do, buying food that nobody's in the mood to eat, which forces me to buy more food which gave me more stickers. It's a cycle made less vicious by the shiny new cookware.

Teenagers 1 & 2 are embracing their adolescence with a fervor that were it spent on homework would guarantee a full ride at the Ivy League of their choice. They do pursue their interests with commitment and curiosity which could logically lead to an eventual Assistant Management position at Gamestop or an unpaid internship at Youtube as a "Video Entertainment Tester." To say we are proud would be a thing to say.

Teenager #1 took the brave, and mature beyond our expectations, step and moved to a new school for his junior year. The move has initiated a massive reshuffling of lifestyle which includes our family living apart for a good portion of the week. We have discovered that this is both hard and better at the same time. Initial results yield the following data:

• Teenagers 1 & 2 like each other more when they see each other less.
• Grocery shopping for two households is about twice as much fun as it is for one.
• Pajamas and socks seem to be the number one forgotten item in the weekly packing process
• Passive aggressive miscommunication increases at the same rate as logistical details
• Teenager #1 is empirically happier which makes it all worthwhile until the next time he pisses us off

Teenager #2 has discovered sarcasm and is still unlocking the secrets to its comic effects and limitations. He has shown refreshing independence in adjusting to his freshman year in high school, is arguably more mature than the rest of us and will likely be taking over the world as long as no one messes with his free time or takes his Doritos. These strides can obviously be attributed to superior parenting skills, and Husband and I are eager to take full credit for his success and achievements since that is why we had the children in the first place.

Husband continues to work hard at his dream job, cultivate his sense of guilt and obligation, exercise patience with an imperfect wife, perfect his excellence at sleep (which conveniently helps with cultivating his guilt), indulge his uncommonly acute and delightful sense of humor even when no one else is in the room and take abundant pride in the fact that he washes and irons his own work shirts, a task he assumes absolves him of doing any other laundry or changing the sheets on the bed.

And as for me, well, given the above, could I be any happier? Who has time to know? Am I right? Seriously, I continue my search for the Holy Grail of jobs that allows me to perform, direct, write and knit, pays me a living wage, gives me a ridiculously inappropriate end of the year bonus and sends me to exotic travel destinations at least twice a year. If you know of any openings, you know where to find me. On the personal side, I am maintaining my on-again-off-again relationship with cleaning, I am consistent in my yo-yo parenting-having moments of inspirational clarity worthy of a guest spot on ELLEN counteracted beautifully by moments of staggering incompetence worthy of an appearance on any talk show aired by Fox or the CW. I've lost 17 pounds while still enjoying gluten, dairy, eggs, sugar, salt and processed foods which makes me a poster child for absolutely nothing. To sum up, I feel blessed and restless, motivated and tired, panicked and zen; in a word I feel human, wonderfully ambiguously, cluelessly human.

And finally, Family Dog is still adorable and finds comfort in eschewing the conventional store-bought doggy memory foam bed in lieu of the wide variety of piles of clothes which, luckily, can be found in every room on floors and chairs alike.

So, as you can see, with the joy and contemplative call of the holidays, we all keep our priorities firmly in line and look forward to relaxing days with each other marked by erratic yet predictable spikes in stress from the togetherness to which we have hitched our holiday wagon.

I will close not by wishing you Happy Holidays as that ups the ante of the potential pressure cooker that is this time of year. Instead I wish for you presence, perspective, a kick ass pair of shoes and an appreciation for the courage each day requires and each one of our unique ways to unleash that courage(which, for me, conveniently, usually involves a kick-ass pair of shoes.)

Not a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving

Dear Teenager 1 & Teenager 2,

I want you to know this Thanksgiving season that I am thankful for you...but not all the time.

I know, I know, this is not warm and cozy and Charlie Brown Thanksgiving-y. But, to be fair, our dog doesn't sleep on top of a dog house and our lives are not underscored by jazz.

When you guys were babies other parents kept telling me "this is the best time." And then 6 months later when you were crawling and smiling, once again "this is the best time." Until eventually they'd just burst out with "every time is the best time." Their hyperbole, as is the way with hyperboles, was bullshit. Teenage years are not the best time; not as a teenager, not as a parent.

You are lazy, you are misguidedly entitled, you have a casual relationship with academic responsibility and consequence, you eat too much, want too much, think you understand what tired is (you don't), you practice gratitude as a means to an end which is frequently a trip to the video game store, you are slobs, you are myopic(look it up and use it in your next essay), you think you deserve easy, you are sometimes quite mean and you ate the last donut.

You frequently make me want to join the witness protection program.

Wait, wait, don't get offended. Yes, I love you beyond reason. Of course I would do anything to keep you safe and insure your happiness. So stop rolling your eyes convinced that you have wisdom you do not yet possess and that you've discovered a negotiating tactic you can use forevermore. Be fair. There are plenty of times when you wish I would just leave you alone and shut the fuck up. Sometimes you even tell me straight out; and, ironically, in that instant we suddenly both want the same thing.  Because, let's face it, I'm a pain in the ass.

I won't shut up about homework and how you should be doing it, I ask you to do stuff-then get frustrated when you don't do it-so I do it myself-and hold it over your head and use it as a negotiating tactic the next time you ask to go to the video game store, I forget to buy that thing at the grocery store you wanted, I'm a horrible housekeeper, I often don't serve vegetables with dinner, I overreact-frequently-about the wrong things, I expect you to work hard on things you don't care about, I say things that I think are encouraging that actually make you feel like I don't believe in you and I buy you clothes for Christmas.

This is not "the best time."

And, begrudgingly, that is what I'm thankful for.  Struggle is inevitable, it's realistic and it's essential. I'm not talking about struggling with you, I'm talking about struggling with me. To be clear the love I have for you has transformed me into a fierce self-doubting controlling terrified well-intentioned idiot. The thought of failing you makes my stomach turn. So I struggle with how much to let go and how much to interfere, when to be your friend and when to give you the mommy look, when to be firm and when to be flexible, when to show you my heart and when to give you the comfort of control, when to let you see me struggle-fail-and try something new and when to let you believe I am strong, and when to leave the last donut for you even though eating it would make me forget the struggle for a minute.

So why the hell would I be thankful for that? Because the result of the struggle is often a take your breath away moment of triumph, a moment which reveals in a blink and you'll miss me instant that you really will be okay. Struggle is essential not just so you know you can survive it but because it unlocks another part of the mystery of the universe, and your glasses just got a little more 3-D and life just got a little cooler and you just got a little more grown-up.

So I am oddly thankful for this "not the best time." And I am thankful for you both because you are extraordinary and horrible, vexing and transformative, perfectly imperfect. So Happy Thanksgiving, and I'm returning the clothes I got you for Christmas.

Love,

Mom

Parent › Teenager Dictionary

It has come to my attention that there is a bit of a language barrier between me and my kids. By all appearances we seem to be speaking the same language, yet I often find myself at a loss to understand or be understood. So, it feels like it's time to create a Parent › Teenager translation dictionary.

What I say	What I want to say	What they hear	What I actually mean
“Time to Get up”	“Get your ass out of bed”	---------------------	“Get your ass out of bed”
“Put your dishes in the dishwasher”	“Please offer to do all the dishes out of your inherent kindness”	“Put your dishes near the dishwasher”	“I’m not your maid.”
“The better you do in school, the more options you’ll have in the future.”	“Please bring your grades up to A’s & B’s.”	“Grades are more important than anything.”	“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Please don’t leave your socks in the living room.”	“If I find one more dirty sock in the living room I might serve it to you as soup then watch as you don’t put the used bowl in the dishwasher.”	“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, sock, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”	“Can you for one minute remember that other humans share this space with you?”
“Is your homework done”	“Turn off the Xbox and do your fucking homework!”	“I will control you. Mwhahahahaha!”	“Trust me, just do your homework first and you will still have time to do what you want. PS: I know you didn’t do your homework yet.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”	“Eventually you’re gonna want to kiss someone, trust me on this.”	“Your breath smells and you are dirty.”	“Your breath smells and you are dirty and our dental insurance does not cover gum disease.”
“Please do your chores.”	“You wanna keep living here? Get your ass off the couch and help out.”	“Your free time is not important to me.”	“Earn your keep.”
“Make sure you meet with that teacher to go over what you got wrong.”	“You should have actually studied for that test.”	“I think you are stupid.”	“I want you to take control of your learning.”
“So how was the dance”	“Did you dance with someone? Did someone ask you to dance? Are you going out with someone? Have you had your first kiss yet? Was there drinking? Did you drink? Are you drunk? How’s your self esteem?”	“I want to invade your privacy.”	“Do you know how great you are?”
“No I don’t want to play Assassin’s Creed with you.”	“I have so little free time.”	“I don’t like what you like and I don’t want to spend time doing what you like to do, but I do expect you to like going to the museum with me.”	“I love you, I don’t enjoy video games.”
“Please don’t talk to me like that.”	“Are you fucking kidding me?”	“You upset me, I am vulnerable to further attack.”	“You upset me, but I’m still your mother and if you expect to eat again, you’ll shut up now.”
“I love you.”	“I will literally do whatever it takes to help you become who you are meant to be.”	“blah, blah, blah, sock, blah, blah, blah, love, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah I Love your socks”	“I got your back, forever.”
“What do you want for breakfast.”	“I’m willing to make you cereal.”	“Kitchen’s open and I live to make you any and all things.”	“Fix me breakfast.”

Well, it's a start anyway. Stay tuned for the Teenager › Parent translation dictionary:

What they say	What they want to say	What I hear	What they mean
“Can you help me find my sweatshirt?”	“I can’t see my sweatshirt from where I’m lying on the couch.”	“I’m lazy and you live for this shit.”	“Find my sweatshirt.”

Kale vs. Cake

Hopes and Dreams...those are tricky little mother fuckers aren't they. They can give you a reason for living and be the root of all evil and self loathing. Having them, following them and having a family...well that's like choosing between birthday cake and kale smoothies for breakfast. Both can be considered good for you on an emotional and literal level, but, ultimately, it is a choice between should and could.

It's not a choice between right and wrong; boy wouldn't that make life simple. Right and wrong decisions imply a concrete and clear sense of justice and injustice.  And let's face it, we all have a well developed sense of justice when it comes to our lives. No, the swirling grayish mass that lingers between the poles of Family and Hopes & Dreams has no parameters, no regulations, an alarming lack of decency and a predictability as reliable as a teenager's promise to take out the trash.

I've got them, Hopes and Dreams. I've had them for awhile, according to my sister, ever since I sat watching Carol Burnett and turned to her and said "I want to do that." I knew it in my bones, it's what made me finally feel like "this is who I am." So I pursued that Hope and followed that Dream in all my practicality. Along the way my Hopes and Dreams grew. I still wanted to be Carol Burnett, but now I also wanted to be Emma Thompson and Catherine O'Hara and Mick Napier(look him up-genius). I loved the studying, worked the work and survived the disappointments. And despite the weird, weird, narcissistic impossibility of the weirdness of this business I chose, it still makes me happy and curious and lights me up.

The problem was, and is, I also had this other Hope and Dream. I wanted to have a family. I knew it in my bones. And despite the weird, weird, motion sickness-like impossibility of the weirdness of this parenting track I chose, it still makes me happy and confused and proud and lights me up.

Oil, say hello to water.

Now, there have been countless articles gracing the covers of Atlantic Monthly and Time and More and Seventeen about "Having it all: Is it possible?" Studies have been conducted, experts consulted, executives profiled and the conclusions linger in that grayish swirling mass of nobody fucking knows. But that doesn't sell magazines. So they barrage us with platitudes of "Yes: here's how." Or "Yes, but not all at once." Or "We're getting close."

So here's my answer, based on seventeen years of living it. I want to say No, because it feels that way most of the time and has the air of controversy; but that would be wrong. My answer: Yes, but it looks completely different than you imagined, and maybe I should have been more specific about what "it all" is. There's a whole lot more to 'all' than the shiny packaging reveals. And once you've opened that package and cut through those seemingly indestructible plastic ties and spread out all the parts on the dining room table, it becomes very apparent that you will never have this put together by Christmas morning.

I love my kids. And since I promised to always tell you the truth here it goes...having them has not made my Hopes and Dreams difficult to attain, the choices I insist on making has. The reality is that every time I make a choice, something gets ignored or lost or left behind. I've said no to things in favor of my kids. I've also said yes to things at considerable expense to my family. I've resented others' successes who do not have kids, and I am jealous of those who do and seem to have it figured out way better than I. And I marvel at people who nod understandingly but silently judge unreservedly my choice to help my kid with his homework instead of going to that thing which will lead to that next thing which will be the key to my success and happiness...maybe. I should add that the helping with the homework rarely ends well and is usually met with disdain and blame from whichever kid I chose over enduring fame and fortune.

Swirling gray mass putting in some overtime.

Well, I'm not Carol Burnett. Or Emma, Catherine or Mick. I have had to say goodbye to some Hopes, shrink many Dreams, and welcome ones I never anticipated. Through stubbornness and passion I have managed to make my living in the field I have chosen and I've gotten to work on some really cool projects. It still looks nothing like I imagined and the joy-to-work ratio is not always a well balanced diet.

Sometimes I am disappointed and want to chuck these stupid Hopes and Dreams because they make life really fucking hard and are they worth it and aren't I just being selfish? And here's the real kicker: my ultimate Hope and Dream is that my kids discover and follow their own. So, I will not give up yet because I do not want them to give up ever.

And now I'm going to go have some cake.

Well Played Old Navy

At the risk of being indelicate, on my way to work today I was reminded of one of the many joys that comes with being a woman. As I am a woman enjoying the second half of my fourth decade, this reminder came earlier than expected, otherwise I would not have been wearing khaki pants. Light colored khaki pants. In that moment I was instantly transported back to my 13 year old self and remembered the fear and panic associated with this potential outcome. I realized in this moment that the only thing worse than having this happen while still in the throes of middle school hell was having this happen as a a teacher of middle school students.

Since I was already running late I did what little triage I could manage, wrapped my sweater around my waist with the sleeves dangling strategically and went to teach two classes. Easy enough, right, just sit behind my desk and lead class in a relaxed yet authoritative manner. This would work perfectly as long as I wasn't a PE or theatre teacher. Well, I'm not a PE teacher, so I dodged that bullet. Unfortunately I did not dodge the other one. So I rush to class, looking over my lesson plan for the day, desperately trying to make adjustments in order to avoid absolute mortification should the dangling cardigan sleeves sway and incur disgust from the 13 year old boys and disdainful pity from the girls. And wouldn't you know it, this, of all days, is when my division director pops by unannounced to observe my class. So, my option of conducting the entire class in the dark had to be quickly discarded.

I somehow make it through the class by lurking in pockets of dim lighting and standing with my legs crossed masking my utter panic with an air of relaxed authority. Thankfully I have a two hour break before my next class. I jump into the car and go to the one place I know I can buy a pair of pants quickly and cheaply...Old Navy. I certainly do not need any more khakis and lord knows I shouldn't be spending any more money until that fictitious book deal comes through (hint, hint, please share this so Simon & Schuster will come calling), but desperate times dictated a new pair of pants.

Two criteria:

• My budget was $20 or less
• The color had to be similar to the ones I was wearing (You know since everyone who saw me so far obviously made note of the shade of khaki pants I was wearing. I know this because Middle School aged kids are rarely absorbed with themselves.)

To my delight, Old Navy was in the midst of their 30% off Stuff and Save sale. The day was taking a turn for the better. I grabbed two pair of khakis in my regular size to try on. One was the right color, one was just a color I always wanted. The one in the right color turned out to be "skinny" style, and I do not have "skinny" style legs, I have "Irish farm-girl" style legs. The other pair were the right style, wrong color, and just a bit too big. Huh. Weird. So, I find the right color, right style and a smaller size; a size I have not worn in 20 years. They fit. My day just got so much better.

Full disclosure? I have been working on losing weight. Hurrah hurrah, good for me, whatever. I'm proud to say I have accomplished this without giving up gluten, dairy or sugar (no disrespect to those who walk that path. You are, in fact braver than me, as I would need my life threatened to give up any one of those much less all three.) My assumption was always that I would simply enjoy my regular sized pants fitting more comfortably. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would go down a size. And I am still not convinced that I have.

This is why. Designers, in a stroke of genius, have started to design pants for different shaped women. Thank you designers. I know that this smaller size in a "skinny" pant would not fit me, but the "relaxed through the hips and thighs" size fits great. The other gem I know of is that a size # today is actually larger than a size # years ago, because designers also know that vanity is a powerful motivator. If I tried to fit in this same size in the 1930's, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even be able to force my arm into one pant leg. Since the criteria for sizes has changed, however, as evidenced by the existence of not only size 0 but size 00, folks like me can enjoy a bit of deluded euphoria.

Regardless of the reality, I definitely walked taller today since I was walking around in a size "late 20's version of myself" pair of khakis. Whatever the reason these pants fit, I'm enjoying it for as long as it lasts. As a matter of fact I have just decided that khakis make great pajama pants. From mortified self-absorption to joyful self-absorption all in a days work.

Well played Old Navy. Well played.