Today, I want to be part of the yoga pant mafia–a phrase my husband affectionately uses to refer to the moms lingering off to the side of the playground at elementary school drop off and pick up. They stand in packs, wearing aviators like my own, without urgency and with well-toned rears shimmering in their 5% Lycra/95% organic fiber yoga pants.
I see myself in the reflection of their lenses, my cell phone in one hand with a call on mute, hurriedly wiping dried chocolate milk from my girls’ faces with the other and kissing their heads goodbye. [Yes, I let them have chocolate milk with breakfast.] I can’t tell if they’re looking at me, if they can sense my envy. Those lenses are so shiny gold and opaque. Where are they going after this? Will there be mimosas?
I’m not in yoga pants. My black suit carries strands of our new puppy’s hair, a toddler-sized thumb smear of yogurt and a dry cleaning tag affixed oddly on the inside seam of the seat of my pants. I haven’t yet removed the pin and stiff paper tag. It’s my own bit of martyrdom today. A guilty-feeling working mom’s discreet bit of self-flagellation.
But, I’m heading out now for lunch. A quiet lunch by myself–that would be impossible if I was home. There is so much that would be impossible if I was a full-fledged member of the yoga pant mafia. So, I’m taking the tag out of my pants before I head out.