My clothes for the most part are a uniform of shorts or skirts and tank tops. I rotate throughout the week, maybe even wearing the same shirt twice in the same week because I can’t keep track. Or because I just don’t pay enough attention.
When I go to get-togethers, however, I do try to dress up and look like I put some effort into what I was wearing, which usually involves dresses because they make me feel good and polished.
But other than that, most of the time I could almost pass for a homeless person.
Or at least a homeless person with someone to wash her clothes.
So yesterday the kids and I went on a walk, Adele in the stroller and Sebastian running along beside me. We make it about halfway through our usual loop and I’m focusing on trying to keep the sun off the baby and chasing Sebastian, who had just ran into the street because he got a little confused when we were crossing the road.
All of the sudden I hear this whistle come from a black SUV that passes by.
You know. A WHISTLE. Directed at me.
The kind construction workers give the ladies as they pass by. (I’m assuming, though I’ve never experienced it.)
And here I am, hair thrown up in a messy bun, mom shorts too tight because I can’t seem to figure out what size I am since having children, bruises all over my legs because of my uncoordination, bug bites, no makeup, weird tan line, nursing bra strap showing, wrangling two children under the age of three, and I get a whistle.
Wonder what they would have done if I’d been wearing shorts that didn’t come up to my armpits.