This Sort of Thing Ain't My Bag, Baby

I feel like I am a pretty simplistic girl when it comes to my clothes. I like solid colors, boot cut jeans, and clunky shoes to keep me grounded.

In the past, I have been known to cut the labels off of the back of my jeans because the companies aren't paying me to advertise their clothes. I wouldn't know a pair of Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks if they kicked me in the ass. And yes, I Googled both brands of shoes to make sure I'd spelled them correctly.

When one of the Christmas presents from my mom turned out to be a Coach purse, I was a bit shocked. Speechless, in fact. Now, it is a genuine knock-off from her trip to Greece, but that does not change the fact that it is Coach purse. The pattern screams Coach. Screams it.

I tried to find something to say. Anything. I am rarely without words, but I was stumped. I did not want my mom to think I was ungrateful. I appreciate that she picked something that she thought I would like. Well, in truth, she bought it because I ought to like it. I mean, who doesn't want a Coach purse, right?

My stammering on Christmas Eve was obviously unconvincing because my mom asked me on the phone this morning about the purse. I know her feelings are hurt, and I don't want them to be. I want to gush over the purse and exude enthusiasm from my pores, but it isn't in me.

I told her the truth.

I told her I thought it was a thoughtful gift, but that I never pictured myself wearing a Coach purse. That she knew I liked a more simplistic style. I could hear the sigh and eye-rolling as she agreed before she tried to convince me how I could use it on a night out with girlfriends.

I let it go at that. I did not have the energy to discuss the fact that going out with girlfriends requires one to actually have girlfriends. To have schedules that match. To have husbands home from work on time and children who behave.

I will keep the purse, and I will use it when Hubbie and I go out to dinner some time. I will do it because I love my mother. I know it will make her happy, and it will make me happy to know I made her happy.

When I entered the world of motherhood four years ago, I had no idea what a mindfuck it would be. All of the parameters by which I defined myself have changed or disappeared. I struggle to redefine myself every day. It's hard to feel cool when your sweatshirt has snail trails of dried snot, there is ketchup smeared on your jeans, and you can't remember the last time you showered in peace.

I may not know always know who I am, but this has been a powerful reminder as to what I am not. This sort of thing just ain't my bag, baby.