If you are a man that owns a pair of Ed Hardy designer jeans with a sequins skull and flower chain running down the right butt cheek (or know of a man that owns them), please do not read on.
I was having dinner with M (and a positively ethereal experience with a tiny dutch oven of mac and cheese), when a man walked by in these jeans. Okay, not exactly. His had more sequins. I can't find them myself, but this picture should put the image in your mind. This, to us women in our thirties, was not okay. M and I had a long conversation about how that is just so... what's the word... gay? Lame? Pretentious? Silly? Maybe all of the above.
That was supposed to be the end of this post: A woman in her thirties does not allow her husband to wear jeans that have glitter and/or sequins running down the legs.
But as we were leaving, M turned to me and said 'I think it's time for a new purse.'
My purse is not four months old, and (sniff sniff, S) designer.
'You don't like it?' I asked.
'No', she said. 'I don't know... it's so old lady.'
M obviously did not know how I agonized over the purse Santa (L) was going to get me for Christmas last year. My purse requirements as stringent as they are specific, and the one I have is the only one that fit all necessary criteria.
'Really?' I asked, holding my purse to me like a newborn baby, shielding it from her judgment.
'Really,' she said. I promised she was going to get it and she didn't even know it. I'm not sure what it is yet, but it's going to be something crazy awesome.
When I got in my car to drive home I realized something. Maybe a woman in her thirties is supposed to learn from the guy who rocks sequined pants. I think it's something about showing restraint when throwing designer rocks from designer glass houses.