When I got dressed this morning, I knew I looked good. My fave jeans, fab shoes, and a sweet fitted blouse with very cool vertical stripes, 3/4 sleeves, and a jaunty collar. The blouse was very feminine cut and snapfront, with the snaps starting just above the top of the center of my bra. I wore my hair down and sunglasses that matched the color of the stripe.
While the youngest was in preschool, I strutted around not one but two Dollar Stores, looking good. I picked up my babe from school, knowing my good looks contrasted sharply with the sweatsuit Mommies and comfy Mommies. When wee lad asked to go to Starbucks for "ice cream milk", I was happy to accomodate him and spread my good looks around there as well.
And I looked good, damn good, as I ordered. I looked good, damn good, as I drank my mocha and chatted with the child. In fact, I looked good, damn good, up until the moment we were leaving and, in the direct line of vision of every person in the store, wee lad demanded I pick him up and grabbed the lapel of my blouse. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Rapid-fire. And suddenly I was standing in Starbucks in my bra, my blouse acting as nothing more than a backdrop for it.
Hereafter, I will be taking my coffee elsewhere.