Hot Mom

I have too many clothes. It’s stupid really. How many white shirts is enough? The t-shirt (v-neck and crew- neck), the camis, the blouses (fitted, tunic, Sundance catalog whimsical). And that’s just the tip of the iceberg towards which my titanic like vanity is headed. There are the jeans, the slacks, the capris, the dresses, the skirts(funky, fabulous, and family gathering styles), the shoes, the sweaters, the Star Wars tees. My closet is literally bursting and yet every morning I stand in front of it like a hungry teenage boy gazing into the Frigidaire baffled by the fact that I have nothing to wear.

I have Hot Mom Complex.

That’s right, I want to be considered a Hot. Mom. I want people to wonder how I have time to look this good and still raise two children. I want men’s heads to turn when I enter a room as if in slow motion because of my hotness. I want other Moms to call me bitch after I’ve passed by because they are jealous of my hotness.

Let me clarify for a moment; I have never at any time in my life been considered hot. At times cute, pretty on my wedding day, blah, blah, blah; but never in fact would the word “hot” be listed in my top ten descriptive traits. So when I say I want to be a Hot Mom it’s really just an extension of my teenage Grease-Sandy-transformation-fantasy.

The problem is, that I am, inherently, lazy and not interested in putting in the time to truly achieve Hot Mom-i-tude. I do not exercise enough, drink enough water or have any intention of giving up gluten. I don’t get mani/pedis, still don’t really know how to do my make-up and am very clueless about what to do with my hair. I buy the majority of my clothes from the Gap Outlet, TJ Maxx and Marshalls. My underwear and bra never match and most of them date back to the Clinton Administration.

So, to recap: I am a vain, lazy, gluten-loving woman with too many clothes, who is hopelessly devoted to her shallow misguided ambition of being considered hot.

I could go on to say that I know I have to believe in myself and my inner hotness and not need the approval or drooling validation of anyone else. That being a mom is the most important thing I’ll ever do and I shouldn’t shy away from being identified as one. That I should just live a healthy lifestyle and not worry about how I look. That as long as my underwear is comfortable, it doesn’t matter how old it is. And that I know that at the root of it all is the deep desire to be known as more than just one part of who I am; that I am many things all at once and that’s what makes me truly hot.

I could say and even believe all of those things to the very core of my core, and my sermon might seem complete, and yet…

I still want to walk into a room as if I just threw this ensemble together from what was draped over the chaise in my bedroom, and have someone whisper to their neighbor “Wow, she’s hot.” To which their neighbor replies “I know, and she’s a mom”, and then in unison they chime “Bitch.”