Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Don't force my hand, Beiber!

Last week I did it. I bought my son skinny jeans. And he loves them. *Forehead hitting desk*

I'm glad I made my boy happy and all, but Beiber and his dumb skinny jeans forced me to come to terms with a reality I've been avoiding for a while now: I am getting old, my style is stuck in the mid- to late-90's, and I need to get with the times.

My son often accuses me of being picky about what he wears. I don't actually think I am all that picky, but I do have criteria, and I honestly don't think its unreasonable.

* No holes
* No stains
* It has to match
* It can't look so strange that people think I let you get dressed in the dark

And, I'm realizing, apparently it has to fit my style too. *sigh* My heart is in the right place though. I just don't want my kids looking like slobs or doofs when they go out in public. There's nothing wrong with that, right?!

But like I said, I'm realizing that I'm getting old and need to get with the times. And that means that I have to - quite begrudgingly - accept "Beiber nation" and let my son wear his ridiculous skinny jeans. Because my ridiculous is apparently his uber cool. I'll never understand it, but sadly, I must accept the stupid skinny jeans and other bizarro fashions of my kids' generation.

In my world, pants need to have some room in the legs. That, and boys pants should look distinctly different than girls pants. And therefore, from behind, you should be able to distinguish a boy's lower half from a girl's. I like to think I am a flexible and accepting person, and don't think I'm generally that rigid in my thinking, but I do think there are lines that shouldn't be crossed and, well, boys skinny jeans cross a line.

However, in the world of 2011 nine year old boys, skinny jeans are the epitome of coolness. I'm not even kidding, but my son actually swaggers in his skinny jeans. I mean, really?! Son, you're nine! Save the swagger for when you're....okay, never. Just don't swagger. It pours salt in the fashion wounds of your mother.

So who do I blame for this fad, and for forcing me into finally accepting that these pants that I will never see as cool are, in fact, very cool if you're 20 years younger than me? That's right. The Beib.

You forced my hand, Beib! And made me feel old and lame. Not cool.

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