The end of all things, oh I seriously doubt it

There is a trustworthy saying that at the end of all times daughters will rise up against mothers (and there's something in there about nation against nation etc). What this prophetic insight failed to mention is that the source of this apocryphal rebellion will be Fashion T.V.

"Mom, I need to borrow a shirt." quipped Hyphen Girl as she sauntered into my room and began going through my dresser.

Now, the fact that she who owns more clothes then Imelda Marcos piqued my curiosity as to why she was looking for a shirt in my room. Oh, that's right, I need to do laundry.

"Race shirt, race shirt, race shirt" she intoned as she pulled article after article from my drawers (dumping them on the floor of course) There's nothing here but race shirts. Mom, all you have is race shirts.

That's not true, you can wear... oh wait I'm wearing that one.

Ok, it's true. Sad. But true. I have no clothes. Well, almost no clothes. Essentially I can put my entire non training, non work wardrobe into a paper grocery bag. That of course, is if you exclude my new line of Hefty fashion.

And here is why.

1) There are four members of the Tribe. That means 4 tuitions to private school, 4 winter, spring, summer and fall wardrobes, 4 piles of medical bills, 4 mouths to feed etc. you get the picture.

2) Trimama is an incompetent shopper. The closest thing I get to "couture" is when the Macy's ramp is full and I have to park at Nordstrom's en route to Lego Land. I like shopping in the sense of looking around and window shopping, but I am easily overwhelmed when it comes to selection. I gravitate to comfort, Trihubby gravitates to Victoria's Secret. Well, that's not entirely true. Everything I own of class or style Trihubby selected. The man knows how to shop.


3) In December of 2004 Trimama was a well rounded, "baby fat" laden, holy cow I can't believe I got that big, Trimama. That was 10 sizes ago. Now at a rapidly shrinking 6 going on 4, nothing I owned last year fits. My form fitting yoga pants are baggy, my "skinny" jeans drop to my knees sans belt and I have to roll the waist band over on pretty much every pair of pants I own.

"Mom, you are a disgrace. We need to write to Clinton and Stacy".

That would be Clinton and Stacy of "What Not to Wear" fame.

Clinton and Stacy would say I have no sense of style. And they would be right. I think years of parenting toddlers, fluctuating weight and voluminous psychotherapy sessions that tend to leave you feeling spent and vulnerable combined to make me indifferent to externals like clothing and style. Oh, I feel a massive journal entry formulating, I won't bludgeon you with those details, that's what a therapist is for, but suffice to say, when the game is about survival, what you wear is secondary.

Allow me to just say this, yesterday I swam 2.5 miles and today I biked 84 miles. Ironman training is tiring and at times painful. Mental fatigue and pain tend to focus my mind on my healing process, which is good. By God's grace, this endurance training is a powerful forge, with a fire intent on purging dross, and sifting out the dross just makes for stronger more beautifully refined metal.

But I digress. I need to find a sense of style. One that is not founded on spandex and lycra. Trihubby texted me this afternoon when I was biking to say that "skinny, black, pants" are back in at The Gap. I hear shopping!

I need help though. Anyone want to be a personal shopper? Or at least lend a bit of advice. Trimama is ready for some style.

And who knows, we may stave off the end of the world for a few years yet.