So yesterday after work, I headed to the mall with my fashion consultant (AKA Kyra) to buy some summer clothes. Somehow every pair of capri pants I own has disintegrated or mysteriously vanished. And dude, it’s nearly 100 degrees outside. I CANNOT wear jeans, even lightweight ones.
So, off to the mall it is! I only shop at one store there, so this cuts down on the angst and decision-making. I figure if they don’t have what I want, it doesn’t exist. Upon entering the store, I went immediately for the earth tones, Kyra gravitated toward color. She wove her way through the displays, selecting outfits for me.
I know what you’re thinking: You shop with your nine-year-old? Here’s the thing: She’s really good at it.
We lugged our armfuls of fashions into the dressing room, where, amazingly, everything fit. I know. I saved the Kyra-selected outfit for last. Once I had it on, she spent about five minutes adjusting the drape, and so on.
Me: You’re really good at this.
Kyra: Well, you know, I’m probably going to be a fashion designer.
This, of course, is when she’s not being a scientist, a veterinarian, or painting all her pets’ portraits.
Then she tried to get me to pose, hand on hip, the other arm just so, head tilted at a particular angle. No matter what I tried, it didn’t work.
Me: I’m not a very good pose(u)r.
Note: Only I found that funny.
So, not only did everything fit, it was all on sale, and I bought the lot. I’m set for summer. And we did it all in forty minutes. At home, I made BLTs for dinner. Kyra took her first bite and let out a Mmmmm most people reserve for Godiva chocolate.
Kyra: Mama, you may be plain when it comes to clothes, but you’re awesome at cooking.
Yes, when it comes to toasting bread, I know no rival.
Writing Wrongs 