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Monday, March 21, 2016

Suburbia

I have come to realize that I need to embrace the fact that I am a white, middle class mom.

I've been in denial for a while, I must admit.  I put off buying a mini van for forever.  I drink my coffee black and only splurge on Starbucks fru-fru drinks occasionally.  I only recently went completely gluten free (and only on the advice of my physician, not because I am convinced that gluten is a devil substance akin to heroin in its capabilities to destroy families and well being).  I just recently started to wear leggings with boots.

This past weekend, though, sealed the deal for me.  Alexis had a dance competition.  Yeah, bitchez, I am a mothafucking dance mom.  That alone should tell you how deep my denial ran.  I pay ridiculous amounts of money on a monthly basis, akin to a car payment, really, for my daughters to dance competitively.  They love it.  They make me cry to watch them.  However, the fact that Elizabeth plays softball, which is infinitely cheaper, will definitely be remembered if I ever get around to making a will.  She will totally get a smaller portion of my debt than the other two.  Even with buying softball gear for her and t-shirts and hoodies, she is way under the other two.

I wore yoga pants with my N*DC t-shirt.  I wore comfy shoes because I knew that I had to haul ass after one of her numbers to change her outfit for the next number.  I wore a hoodie because it sometimes gets cold, but also it can get hot when I am hauling ass as outlined above.  I was desperately searching for some coffee because that is what dance moms subsist on, along with the fumes from the hairspray and fake eyelash glue.

The real defining moment of acceptance, though, came when I was contemplating a Target run.  I needed to get a new chain for my necklace, as well as some butter and spinach and a new crochet hook (weird assortment, I know) but I was not sure if Target would carry all of that.  I then realized that my big hesitation with going to Target, besides if they would carry crochet hooks, was that Target is the equivalent of an opium den for suburban mothers.  You go there, intending to just look around, and leave feeling slightly dirty and used, with a bit of a leftover buzz/hangover, significantly lighter in the pocket, and potentially with some unwanted baggage (in the case of the opium den, some VD; Target would be shit from the dollar bins...).

Yeah.  Nothing like having reality smack you right out of the comfy ignorance of denial.  I'm just wondering what else I am ignoring.  Latent gangsta tendencies?  Repressed love for Katy Perry?  The acceptance of Barbie as an accurate representation of a female body?   The possibilities are endless here.  Just goes to show that you can evolve as a person.  Even if that evolution involves embracing your whiteness while attempting to be aware of your privilege.

I just totally slipped that in there.  You're welcome.

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