Everyone needs a pair of Rebel Pants. I just made up that phrase so I don’t expect you to know what I mean. Rebel Pants are the pants you put on when you want to make a statement. You probably have a pair or gasp! two? of pants that you put on and your whole attitude changes.
When I was a teenager I went to see Coyote Ugly and, my feelings on that movie’s Oscar snub aside, I fell hard in love. The music, the dancing on bars, the PANTS. Oh lordy, the pants. I went out, as did my other Coyotes, and immediately bought cheetah print pants. I just realized this is the second post I have made that refer to my cheetah pants… hmm. I didn’t go crazy like my friend, Ducky whose real name was Monica but because high school girls are fundamentally silly, we called her Ducky. Anyway Ducky bought hot pink cheetah pants. But please yours truly had some semblance of good taste, so I bought the regular normal cheetah colored print and a matching top… yup. Now the truth is, I probably would have worn these pants maybe a handful of times being the fickle lass I was back then, but you see my mother HATED these pants. There was nothing blatantly wrong with the pants so she couldn’t forbid them. They covered everything they needed to cover and didn’t suggest that my tush was juicy, so they followed the rules. But she loathed these. I could just tell. All teenagers can tell when their parents loathe something. It’s a sixth sense. So I wore the pants ALL the time. It was my way of rebelling. I was what one might call, a rule follower, so this act of rebellion was kind of huge. These pants, probably the first thing I bought with my own money because my mom sure as heck wasn’t going to spring for those god awful things, were ME. They were the tangible representation of my separating from my mom and forming my own identity. They were my first pair of Rebel Pants.
The next pair came in my 20s. Ahh my twenties. One hell of a decade. These pants were faux leather. I looked exceptionally hot in them. Though I was 22 so I would have looked hot in a paper bag.. I wore them everywhere because I knew I looked hot in them. They were shockingly versatile. In winter, I could pair them with a fairly tight cute sweater because everything was still where I left it that morning without requiring the aid of a NASA engineered underwire system. Other times, I topped them off with a proper pair of F- me boots- I was unstoppable. I danced on bars completely stone sober. I led entire subways cars in song. I got lots and lots of free drinks, which I promptly passed out to my friends. I sang karaoke and danced at clubs all night. Nothing dangerous, nothing especially crazy just the kind of fun you have in your 20s . These pants were my Long Island Iced Tea- lowered my inhibitions and shut that rule follower up a little. That straight A, straight-laced Catholic school girl was nowhere to be found when these pants came on. I doubt I would have nearly as much fun had I not had these pants. These pants helped me rebel against myself. They were my Rebel Pants of my twenties.
I am now mid-way into my 30s with two kids, a solid happy marriage, and a law degree. The biggest way I rebel against my mom is by posting about her on Facebook and let’s just say the only vomit I deal with now belongs to someone in a Disney princess night-gown. Sidenote- toddlers and drunk friends are amazingly similar. My life is less exciting. Less fun. I could be charitable and say it’s a different type of fun, but that’s lying. Playing with play doh and going to sing-alongs simply don’t compare with joining an entire bar in a 3am rendition of “Livin’ on a Prayer”. I need to be responsible now. I need to be the mom.. All The Time. And I dress the part. Butt-covering loose top over leggings is the standard fare. Yea, sometimes I go a little nuts and pair some skinny jeans with a kitten heel and some dangly earrings. You know you are a mom when the words “dangly earring” and “toddler” in the same sentence makes you cringe just a little. 95% of the time some tiny person is watching me and forming their ideas of what an adult should be based on my actions. The other 10% of the time I am just too damn tired for those shenanigans and the ubiquitousness of cell phone cameras have raised the cost benefit ratio. So I sort of figured my rebelling days are stowed away in my mom’s basement next to my cheetah and faux leather pants, and some other questionable fashion phases. Until today.
It was cold. Bitterly cold. The kind of cold that makes your face gasp in pain. My kid was getting off the bus down the block in 10 minutes and I grabbed my pair of jeans. Ya know, the respectable ones that lets everyone that sees me in that 90 second walk believe that I have it together and, despite not seeing another adult all day I still bothered to put on real clothes. My jeans were ice-cold. I said Fuck it. Out loud. My toddler can’t talk so who is she going to tattle to? I walked down to the bus in my fleecy furry pink and purple Eeyore pjs. Once I got over the initial shame that immediately washed over me along with the piercing cold, I felt pretty good. Who are THEY to judge my pj pants?! Everyone knows leggings are just tight pj pants anyway. I walked with a sassy little strut. Screw your social conventions and expectations of motherhood. This is how I mother! I am rebelling against your expectations of me….oh shit. These ARE my Rebel Pants. These sad, ragged, very pastel except for that coffee stain on the thigh, pants are the Rebel Pants of my 30s. How did that happen?
Oh well, at least they are comfy.
maybe my forties will bring some sort of Lycra/ Spandex blend…..
Playdates and Protests: 
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