My great great great grandfather, Henry Marion Stilwell, was a confederate soldier in the Civil War. At one point, he was captured in Vicksburg, Mississippi and held as a POW. That length of time is debatable, depending on which family elder you’ve cornered at a reunion. It also varies depending on which, if, and how many adult drinks are involved. His capture tale vacillates between a few months and “the entire war.” Everyone agrees on one thing. Henry’s makeshift cell was positioned near the area where the union soldiers kept their horses. Some would see the stench as further punishment, but Henry saw the situation as fortuitous and is said to have survived by eating the horse feed that fell near him as the equines munched. Cancel culture would have us believe speaking about the war between the states is taboo. I say forgetting history means you’re doomed to repeat it. Besides, let us not discredit Henry. After all, there was this thing called a compulsory military draft. Henry was eventually released, thankfully. Thus, I am here entertaining you with such stories. They say he was a scarred man. He winced at the sight of horse feed. A story about war, you say? No. This is a story of how things scar you, mainly bad fashion choices. On the day the war ended, Henry swore he would never wear union blue again as long as he lived. To the knowledge of the Stilwell clan, he upheld that statement.
The adage “no regrets” is foolish. I regret many things. I regret my successful lobbying attempt to my parents, begging them to let me stop playing classical violin in high school because it wasn’t cool. I regret not finishing my degree. I regret a certain career choice. I regret my selection of words the last time I spoke to my daughter. Surely there was something better for that moment than, “See you later, alligator.” Finally, I regret much of the 80s. I regret acid washed denim. I regret laying on my back and using a coat hanger to zip up my unimaginably tight Sergio Valente jeans. I regret shoulder pads larger than my own head. I regret spiral perms. I regret slathering myself in Crisco to lay in the noonday sun on top of a trampoline. I regret Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine. I regret hoop skirts. I definitely regret puffy paint sweatshirts. I certainly, positively, wholeheartedly regret stirrup pants worn with flats. These are a few of my least favorite things seen through the impeccably clear lens of hindsight.
Recently, it was parents’ weekend at the kid’s college, his very last parents’ weekend. At best, these events are awkward. You can see it on every parent’s face. “Hey, I am so proud of you that I drove down here to hang out in bars with you and pretend like my liver isn’t cursing at me and my hairstyle doesn’t scream speak to the manager.” Everything goes swimmingly well for a bit. The bar is dark and dank. They always are. There’s someone at the door, a college age man, usually, checking IDs. They must give classes on how to check a mom ID. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. This isn’t your ID. It says you were born in 1967. Clearly, this ID was stolen.” “Oh, wow, great picture.” “Oh, hey. Welcome. We love when sisters come down.” I imagine the ID checking class has them practicing the wink they give you as you blush and giggle, all twitterpated over the utter silliness of such flattery. Happy moms buy more drinks. Proven fact. Anyway, at this particular weekend event, this very last one of its kind, I was determined to look unmomish. I just created this term. How does someone with streaks of gray hair and enough crow’s feet for the entire murder go about looking unmomish? I wore my best skinny jeans, the jegging ones with the tummy suck in panel built into the front. One knee is ripped, but tastefully so. I tucked them into my taupe, suede, pointy toe booties. Winner winner. It was absolutely freezing that night, so I opted for a simple creamcolored sweater underneath my teddy bear coat, the one that looks like an actual stuffed animal except that it’s double breasted. I used enough curl cream to float a boat, since super big hair never asks to speak to the manager. I chose my biggest hoop earrings. I wore false eyelashes. I plopped down on a bar stool at a too lucky to be true empty table and soaked in the moment. “What’s wrong,” my husband asked? “You look like something is wrong.” Out of nowhere appeared a virtual manager. He materialized in front of me as if out of a mist. “You asked to speak to me,” he said?
Skinny jeans are out. Why did no one tell me? I was sitting at a student patronized dive bar as college girl after college girl sauntered in wearing the uniform du jour, the mom jean. What is a mom jean, you ask? They are huge, unflattering, baggy, high wasted jeans that make super skinny girls look like they just gave birth to a tiny elephant moments ago. Acid washed denim seems to be the favorite hue. The length was a nice touch, I thought. They’re either way too long, puddling onto the yucky, wet bar floor, or they’re ridiculously short, flaring out just about the ankle. Either way, they are paired with chunky sneakers that remind me of a lawn mowing dad. And, no one had a coat on. They all wore boxy sweatshirts that looked like someone, surely a sweatshirt bandit, ran by with scissors and chopped off the bottom. Worst of all, I did not see a head of fixed hair in the whole place. Like a bad 90s dream, I spied a sea of huge claw clips, perched on the back of each head, the hair wound into a figure 8 with spriggy ends poking from the crown. It’s ok, girls. I’ll hang onto these gray hairs and fine lines, the mark of someone who’s followed a trend or two in her day. I’ll be over here with Henry Marion, wincing at the horse feed and refusing to wear stirrup pants.
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