what I wore sunday / how stepping in poop made me dress better

After trying on every article of clothing I own this morning in search of an outfit (in truth I guess I did skip my impressive collection of Gonzaga sweatshirts and bridesmaid dresses), I settled on what I call my first-trimester dress--or if worn now, when I'm not pregnant, my no-compression-undergarments-needed dress. Seriously, this thing is forgiving and merciful to the midsection.

Dress: Jones New York
Frost on every tree and bush in the city: Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Coat: In the car
Necklace: Should have worn one

I always consider this dress too schnazzy to wear to Mass, and why? Because it's black, I guess? I heard once that you should dress for Mass as you'd dress for a wedding. Would I wear it to a wedding? Of course. So here it is. The only thing missing is a hosted bar and some layer cake.

Last week on Fine Linen and Purple, Sarah challenged readers to cast off their pajamas and sleepwear each morning and truly get dressed. I know that some moms do struggle mightily with this. I don't consider myself one of them. Pulling on jeans plus a nursing camisole and tunic when the boys were babies always seemed infinitely more comfortable to me, probably because I've left the house at least once every single day since they were born (ok, there was this one day I didn't).

But I do understand the urge to wear workout clothes or sweats with a fleece jacket and tennis shoes from time to time, even if working out isn't in your plans, because workout clothes can be so cute these days--the pinks! The neons! The January sales to suck you into it all!

I bought a dandy new pair of workout shoes a few months ago and resolved to use them solely for working out.

See? Pink. OOooooooh.

My other grungy pair I relegated to those sweatpants/fleece days. It was on one such day that I walked the boys to the park.

Within 10 minutes of being there, I solidly whacked my head on a low monkey bar. Then Joe fell off a tire swing. And while still recovering from said head whacking and rushing through the bark to rescue Joe from the offending tire swing, I stepped in a large, mushy, camouflaged pile of dog poop.

(An aside re: animal feces. In the three years since becoming a mother, I've built up my tolerance to poop that comes from my own children. But poop that comes out of anything other than a creature I've birthed myself? I SHUDDER. Spare me.)

I packed everyone back in the stroller and heaved homeward, swearing and cursing dog owners who don't clean up when their animals crap in public spaces, especially spaces that are designated for children and their easily-irritated mothers.

When we got back to our garage I kicked off my disgusting footwear. Already being winter, we had disconnected our garden hose, so I didn't have running water outside with which to wash them off--and I wasn't about to bring them inside. So I threw them. Here.

And there they've sat ever since.

POINT BEING: I no longer have shoes to wear on my sweatpant days.

And so? I get dressed every day.

Three cheers for that.

More outfits/less rambling at FLAP.