Comfortable in my cotton and denim skin - Lebanon Reporter

Typically, I wear a cotton shirt and denim shorts or jeans. For going out, I have fancier cotton tops and jeans in shades other than blue. Or I have a short cotton-blend skirt that, for the past four years, I have been wearing with a denim vest or denim jacket, depending on the season. It’s kind of sad, really. I’m just a constant mish-mosh of cotton and denim.

About once a year, I decide to update my wardrobe. I branch out. I buy things that “speak” to me. I whirl and twirl in front of dressing room mirrors, and become giddy at the possibilities. I arrive home, laden with shopping bags full of bright colors, new textures and hope.

The following morning, I jump out of bed and eagerly dress. As I walk down the stairs, ready to get the day started, my kids look up.

“Where are you going?”

“The kitchen to make breakfast.”

“Where are you going after that?”

“Nowhere.”

“Do you have an appointment later?”

“No.”

“Is somebody coming over?”

“No.”

“Is there a funeral?”

At this point, I resolve that my children will become so accustomed to seeing me nicely dressed that they will no longer question whether or not someone has died. The resolution lasts until the first time I have to wash dishes or vacuum while wearing a dress. So ... about a month. Just kidding! It lasts approximately three days.

My mother nearly always wore dresses and skirts, but somehow the June Cleaver gene escaped me. I don’t remember ever seeing Mom in jeans or shorts — ever. Not even before our family became ultra, super religious, and such things were deemed a sin. And those times when she didn’t wear a skirt, she wore either culottes (that looked like a skirt), or slacks. Not pants, but slacks which apparently are a step or two above pants.

Every time we went to the grocery store, she looked like she had just come from church. And every time we left church, she went to the grocery store. My sister and I would sit in the car, waiting with Dad, because Mom always needed to pick up one essential Sunday dinner ingredient that she had neglected to purchase on her regular Saturday shopping trip. Sometimes we waited patiently, sometimes not so much.

I remember one Sunday, watching from the back seat of the station wagon, as she exited the store, hurried across the parking lot in her high heels, and got into the passenger seat of a similar looking station wagon. Two seconds later, we heard a scream, and she emerged from the other vehicle with one hand over her heart. I am guessing the driver of that station wagon was just as startled as my well-dressed mother.

Last week, I had my annual “spruce up my wardrobe” shopping trip. The next day, I excitedly got dressed and went to meet a friend for coffee.

“That’s quite an outfit,” she offered.

I looked down, and realized that I was wearing suede, corduroy, crochet and calf hair. It was like I opened my closet door, and all of the unworn textures decided to make a break for it and jumped onto my body at once.

I’m not likely to wash dishes while wearing calf-hair loafers. And I won’t vacuum or dust in a suede jacket. As soon as I finished my tea (because I don’t actually drink coffee), I went home and changed into something more realistic for my lifestyle. I rather enjoy being a mish-mosh of cotton and denim. And no one has to die for me to wear it.

Ginger Lumpkin is an author, motivational speaker, and mother of five. Follow her on Facebook, find her on the web: www.gingeretta.com, or contact ginger.columnist@gmail.com.

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