Walking Disaster

Trust me when I say that my mother’s unfortunate habit of coming to pick me up from school in printed bras with see-through tank tops is just the tip of a very skanky iceberg. No, she is not from New Jersey. She just has the stereotypical heroin chic silhouette, aka the proportions of a stick figure with fake boobs big enough to rival JWoww circa 2009.

She got them done before technology was advanced enough to make them look natural (they had no chance — she was originally an A cup), so when she wears Victoria’s Secret push-ups, they might as well be level with her chin. Middle school and high school are rough enough without dealing with the guys you have a crush on crushing on your mom. But have no fear — the strategically placed cross necklace is an unmistakable reminder that she is a good and moral citizen.

For anyone reading this who is a mom, I am not impugning plastic surgery. Women are pressured to feel bad regardless of whether they do or do not have it, and I am not here to debate societal beauty expectations. God knows I will be botoxing my face as soon as I can afford it.

Just know that if you have daughters bearing a slight resemblance to you, they will notice when you change your nose, cheeks, eyelids, and lips, and they will start to hate all the features you previously shared because you have shown them that those features weren’t pretty enough.

But I digress. This post is not about her unfortunate surgeries. Although, there are some great stories there…ask me about the time she popped a boob! This post is about me and my struggle through high school and college when I did not know how far off base her clothing habits were. Stylish? Absolutely. Wildly inappropriate? Even more so.

Let’s begin with my school uniform, the typical catholic school plaid skorts, which she hemmed to take about three inches off. That wasn’t necessarily a problem because those skorts were hideous. The problem was her refusal to buy new ones after my freshman-year growth spurt.

What was originally a modest length, was now at least five or six inches above my knee as a sophomore. All my friends would comment on how short my skorts were, all the guys in my grade would mention it, and even other adults would ask where the rest of my skort was. When I would ask her to change it, she told me they were all jealous of my long legs, and when I brought up boys talking about it, she would ask me if I thought they were cute.

I started to try wearing pants more, except it’s hot as fuck for most of the year. I was beyond self-conscious about it! Not to mention I received an inordinate amount of detentions each year. I still don’t understand how she could be mad at me for another Saturday school when it was all due to uniform infractions. Thanks for the street cred, I guess?

The worst offender, but chronologically the second one, would be her attempt at birthday and Christmas gifts. While we haven’t spoken in years, she still manages to send presents via my brother or the post office, using the latter exponentially more each year. Seemingly a nice gesture, right? It would be if she didn’t spend every year since I turned 16 gifting me clothes a size or two smaller than I actually wear.

Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how you look at it), I haven’t grown or shrunk in about twelve years, despite my best efforts. She sends me smaller sizes because she believes it’s aspirational. The few times I would complain or bring it up, she would throw a tantrum and give me larges or XLs because for her, not being small is the same as being huge.

It’s unnecessary to defend myself for this, (but I literally will not be able to sleep if I don’t): I am not fat! I am athletic and relatively skinny. But I am also tall. Healthy for me is around size four, or medium. And my desperate need to write out those facts proves that I survived high school sans an eating disorder by the skin of my teeth.

Cut to several years later, in college, when I had my first office job. We went shopping for professional-looking clothes together, and she even passed on some of her old ones. What an adorable Hallmark Mother-Daughter moment. Or so I thought, until I wore one of her outfits and my brand-new coworker asked if I was going to the club straight after work. Turns out it was an adorable Melrose Place Mother-Daughter moment. How was I supposed to know that heels, dresses, and/or miniskirts would be considered out of place? I mean, she paired them with blazers!

Honestly, thank god for the rest of the women in my life and our various group chats because Pinterest is about as helpful as the woman who started this cycle of bloodshed. Sometimes, I still feel lost with what is appropriate and acceptable for trade shows, interviews, and weddings!

It would not surprise anyone to know that the last time I saw her at a wedding, she wore a white dress. With a tutu. No, it wasn’t her wedding. Yes, I am serious. I always knew that I had a wealth of neuroses and anxieties that trace back to my parents, but sometimes it’s the odd ones that creep in out of nowhere. They are not revelations, but they do startle me.

Stay tuned for more stories like her attempt at being a Bravo Real Housewife, her big and nearly as toxic family, or her (presumed) fraudulent wedding.