This morning we went to the park in the wealthy town nextdoor…you know, the town where there are multiple Tesla charging stations and white collar crimes aplenty on the City Council (scandalous!)
I decided to up my playground game a tad and finally test drive my Mother Denim (no charging required). I have been wearing the hell out of the Madewell Roadtrippers. I swear those paired with my tiger vintage tee from Nordstrom’s got me through a 2 hour wait to vote yesterday plus a vigorous debate with a Mayoral candidate whilst in line (I also took on another lady looking for anti-apartment signatures. As my mom put it, “It’s never boring with you, Meredith. I always knew you were going to speak your mind since birth!”
I don’t know why but I kind of had buyer’s remorse over these Mother Denim flares. Did a love them or was I caught up in the moment of actually being in a mall, sans kids for 60 glorious minutes?
Spoiler: No, I definitely love them. The flare is perfect, the denim delicious, the rough hem perfection and the booty lifting capabilities would make NASA jealous (I’m not entirely sure what that means). I settled into my comfortable tee from Crooked Media (Nancy P. if ya nasty) because – let’s be real – I still have 3 kids including a 5-mo-old, I will be spit up on. For my kicks I pulled out my Madewell booties (I want to say they are called Chelsea Booties, but maybe that’s just a fever dream?). I got them off Poshmark for a steal last year when I realized we were going to Europe and clearly I needed an entirely new wardrobe. Being mocked by the French was a fear of mine that bounced around in my anxiety-addled brain. I basically was the anti-Emily in Paris (the Netflix show with Phil Collins daughter where she goes to Paris, is shocked people hate the American who doesn’t speak French and thinks everything needs her American perspective), every man she meets wants to bone her and we’re supposed to believe she eats carbs at every meal. Sacré bleu!
So, I paid for the yearlong subscription for Duolingo, studied up on French capsule wardrobes (I figured French style would translate across the entire European experience) and went to work sourcing sales and Poshmark for threads. The Mom Edit was a HUGE help (seriously search the site first if you’re looking for anything. It’s my Fashun Google). My husband and brother (we all went on the trip together – we’re an odd 3 Musketeers type deal – or my brother and I are just co-dependent) mocked me relentlessly for all of this until we got to France and they couldn’t order in the cafe and my ass saved them. As we sat there people watching (there is no better place to people watch than Paris) sipping the café I graciously ordered those ingrates, my brother looked at me in surprise and exclaimed, “You actually look like you fit in here if you never opened your mouth!”
Highest. Compliment. Ever.
He finished it up with a backhanded compliment to himself. “I can’t make French fashion work because the pants are too skinny and I have too much booty for that.”
Again, it’s a weird relationship.
Anyway currently strolling my bebe around the playground pretending I am stomping the sidewalks of the 5th arrondissement and not northeast Texas.
x Mere
The Mere-Dish 