I’ve been grappling with pink since Baby was born. Pink blankets, pink onesies, pink bath towels, pink toys, pink socks, pink bibs. We didn’t find out if we were having a boy or a girl, so I was lucky to have a bunch of yellow, green, and white stuff on hand or I would have gone apeshit. I don’t love pink. It’s a fine color, but everything in moderation would be better. It’s particularly puzzling because:
- Babies love bold graphic patterns and high contrast colors, so what’s with all the pastel? and
- Why is it that boys get a range of colors – bold reds, bright happy yellows, rich royal blues, vibrant oranges – but girls get only pink? (I’m not the only one wondering, btw. Even a FOUR YEAR OLD demands to know).
It’s not absolutely impossible to find non-pink clothes, but it is difficult. The big box stores and chain baby retailers carry a few things here and there, but it’s mostly a Pepto world out there. Higher end baby clothing lines do carry more variety for girls, but they’re out of reach for me – too expensive. And the consignment stores? Don’t get me started. Their #1 selling item is a pink baby headband – they can’t keep it in stock. My baby girl is beautiful without any stupid ass headband designed to ensure that others know she’s a girl. Like you couldn’t tell from the pink onesie, the pink sweater, the pink pants, and the pink socks. I want my baby’s wardrobe to be as expressive and funky as I am, but I’m also not rich, so evidently, she’ll be destined to a pink world, at least for now. I thought in a city of this size, with this many f-ing tattoos and facial piercings (mine included), there’s GOT to be some cool, hip, affordable Funky-Ass baby store here. I turned to my local alternative weekly paper, as they’re more apt to point me away from chain big box retailers and towards some cool little tucked-away gem I didn’t know about that caters to moms who aren’t cookie cutter, plastic surgery trophy wives with daddy issues. But I did a search in their “Best of” section for “baby”… and the top result was a strip club. I give up.
A few years ago, I scored these really cute jeans at the second-hand shop, but I never wore them until this week. I don’t remember if I ever even tried them on at the store, but it doesn’t matter – between gaining weight in recent years and then that whole being pregnant thing, they were aspirational jeans, left in a pile with all the other “maybe someday I’ll fit into these” clothes.
I found them when I was packing away my “winter” clothes (I do live in PHX, so ‘winter’ clothes, not actual winter clothes) and switching them out for my spring and summer clothes. I tried them on and squealed with glee that they fit. They’re cute. And MAN are they comfortable. They have a lot of stretch and give – it’s almost like I’m wearing
Are these PAJAMA JEANS?!
Not possible. When did those even start, anyway? Surely *after* I got these, right?! (I’m serious, actually. I think I scored these in about 2008, so…before Pajama Jeans became a thing, right?) Right?
OMG. Just go ahead and put a “middle aged” target on my back.
Last night was the annual Westminster Dog Show, and while I love dogs, I don’t love the event. The whole idea of a “purebred” just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. My three dogs are all rescue dogs, and that’s all I would ever have, so the idea that people would pursue some idealized neurotic purebred rather than rescue a well-deserving, loving, smart, athletic fuzzermuffin from their local shelter is beyond comprehension.
But there is something I do love about watching the event: the handlers’ complete lack of fashion. When they show the dogs, you see the calves and shoes of the handler walking or trotting alongside the dog, and THAT provides pure, unadulterated entertainment. It is a parade of the worst shoes ever and the most unflattering skirts anyone could ever find. I don’t have any idea where these people find those ugly-ass shoes, the skirts that hit mid-calf (cause that’s a flattering length on anyone!), or the ghastly spectrum of taupe stockings. Sure, this is a high society event, so I guess the handlers are conforming to some conservative unstated dress code in an (unsuccessful) attempt blend into the background. But just because you gotta dress conservative and be prepared for running doesn’t mean you have to look terrible. It’s like they try hard to be as frumpy as possible. I feel like I dress pretty conservatively – I’m not into showing a lot of skin, but even I know that a skirt that hits mid-calf doesn’t look good on anybody, especially when paired with a no-nonsense vinyl orthotic sneaker disguised as a flat. It’s not like you don’t have time to prepare. Learn how to jog in a short heel, or at least visit Zappos to find some attractive flats. Order 20 pairs and send back the ones that fit poorly or turn out to be ugly as sin – that’s what it’s there for! Then get on a treadmill with your selected pair and practice, practice, practice. Not only will that help you get used to moving in real shoes, it’ll also give your calves some shape. And then you can show off your athletic calves in a pencil or A-line skirt, rather than that fuddy-duddy sh*t you call a skirt.
Why, oh why, is everything in the world of baby girls’ clothing pink? Pink is a fine color. But it is only one of thousands of hues. It’s kind of ridiculous. Once you get to toddler sizes, there’s a beautiful world of whimsical purples, playful oranges, and bold, vibrant primary colors. So why is it that clothing manufacturers presume I’m insecure about people asking me how old “he” is or telling me “he’s” a cutie, and insist that I clothe her in all pink? Why don’t they let that be my problem. They should worry less about my “need” to demonstrate to the world that my baby is a girl and more about the sewing needles left in the hem of her garments, or the tiny, unbuttonable buttons on the back of her shirt (when there should be only snaps, and only on the front of the garment).
Whether it’s the sweetly subtle pink of her soft fleece swaddle or the muted pink of her floral onesie, or the pink fawns on her forested waffle tee, or the pink ice skates on her pajamas, or the solid pink ballet tee, or the pink polka-dotted onesie, or the pink stripey outfit, or the pink snowflakes shirt, or the pink daisies onesie, or the pink stripey hoodie, or the pink pants, the other pink pants, the other other pink pants, the hot pink pants, or the other hot pink pants, or the other other other pink pants, I’m just not tickled pink.