Q & A at Ross Dress for Less

Question [from my hopeful 13-year-old daughter, dashing up to me as I finally reach the head of the endless line at Ross with armload of cheap finery]:

Mom! Can I wear these to the Formal?

Answer [arrived at instantly upon glancing down at the pair of black vinyl six-inch stilettos she is clutching]:

No.

Question [posed to the four women in line behind me, who represent the neighborhood's broad range of ages, colors and sizes]:

Are y'all with me on this?

Answer [in unison]:

Yes.


Somehow when I posted this on Facebook (from my iPhone, as the clerk scanned our selections at glacial speed) it sparked a ridiculous discussion about whether I should have bought my daughter these even more ridiculous shoes. Which was honestly never the issue -- not even for Josie. She knew they were ridiculous, and didn't seem particularly surprised or disappointed when I said no: after a theatrical little shoulder slump she ran cheerfully back to the shoe aisle to put them back on the shelf with the other crappy-glam size elevens. She might have protested a bit more if we hadn't just bought a pair of four-inch square-heeled black-and-white pumps at Gather... But I kind of doubt it. She's been around the kitchen island in platform go-go boots enough times to know you don't really want to commit to a whole evening on torture stilts until you're good and ready.

No, it wasn't about the shoe question; it was about making one of those split-second maternal decisions we all face a thousand times a day: Can I go to Sophie's instead of Drama Club? Can I set off this homemade smoke bomb out on the terrace? Can you bring me my lunch that I left in the fridge? Most of the time we're flying solo in this storm of requests, with nobody watching as we throw out an answer (right or wrong), absorb the resultant fist-pumping or eye-rolling or whatever, and move on to the next urgent matter that presents itself... Mom, can you come here a minute? I tried to make caramel in the frying pan, and now the spoon is stuck in a puddle of smoking black goo...

But this time was different. After issuing my no-brainer stiletto verdict, I got to turn to an impromptu jury of my peers, gathered behind me in line at the discount store at quarter to six on a Wednesday afternoon. And every last one of them -- the tiny Asian lady, the African American woman with golden dreadlocks, the polished blonde executive tapping her pointy-toed boot, the Somali mother in a headscarf with two toddlers climbing out of her shopping cart -- they all looked up and nodded, enjoying this classic little mother-daughter interaction, smiling at both of us in affectionate solidarity -- and backing me up.

Now, just in case anybody out there is harboring any lingering fears about Josie's sartorial deprivation, here is the Formal outfit in its entirety:

Zowie! This must have been what Cole Porter had in mind when he coined the word "swellegant."

Please forward any complaints to my Ross Posse.