Wardrobe Malfunction

I’m seriously wondering at what point, my daughter accumulated a better wardrobe than me.  I used to go out and drop a buck on an outfit for the weekend party, or wherever I was going.  Even the random, yet consistent, occasional shirt or pants I’d throw in during my ‘grocery’ trip to Target has diminished, and has now been replaced by the ‘cute shirt that Aubrie just HAS to wear to that birthday party this weekend,’ purchase.  I’d replace that ‘extra’ $7.99 bag of Bertolli meal in bag with two Circo shirts for the same price.  I’ll make tuna again. 

I mean, those cute strappy sandals that light up come in both purple AND red, but Aubrie can’t wear purple shoes with a red outfit.  She’d look like a member of the ‘Red Hat Society’.   So she just has to have both.   Besides, buying two pairs of her shoes still cost the same (if not less) than ONE pair of shoes for me.  And let’s face it; I’m not perusing the new local-band bar anymore so I don’t need those new platform Steve Madden-hooker shoes.  Maybe for Mother’s day.

The new shiny piggy tail holders replaced my yearly purchase of a new curling iron.  The glue-like plaster mixture of hairspray and hair isn’t all that gross. Where’s the brillo pad?

The mountain of fluffy tutu’s that Costco carries, replaces my new blingy belts that I used to get at those ‘at home clothes’ parties.

My fake ‘Miss Me’ jeans have been replaced by packs of sports bras, yoga shirts and gym shorts.  After all I need to still FIT in to the fake ‘Miss Me’ jeans.

The sequence and bling that used to twinkle in my closet, has mysteriously disappeared and re-appeared into Aubrie’s.  It shines so bright that even Tinkerbell herself would have to wear sunglasses.

When did it all happen?  Where was the shift that replaced my purses with hers?  I wonder as I dig through the bottom of my once prized Coach purse, burrowing through moistened globs of crushed cheez-its and water from her sippy cup that spilled, trying to locate that one die-cast heart-shaped acrylic bracelet with glitter embedded in it that she swears is in there.

I wipe it down with a wipey and hand it to her, looking up at me with those big blue eyes and round sweet-cheeks.  I pass the Charlotte-Russe store with all the too-young-for-me clothes that I’m just dying to fit into again.  I’ll do 5 more squats on the smith machine.  I think as I head towards the Mrs. Fields cookie bar right across the aisle. 

Sigh.