Gloria-fied

Mom, why are you dressed?” My son, Ayrton, who had just turned 13, groaned when I attended the tiangge project of his Filipino class.

Never one to go to the kids’ school in my shorts-tank-slippers housebound uniform, I was speechless because, of course, I was dressed. I was wearing my day-in, day-out staple of either T-shirt and jeans or T-shirt dress —anything T-shirt: easy, comfy and fuss-free. 

I don’t quite recall when my love affair with the T-shirt started. It seems like I’ve been wearing them forever. It’s the slip on, slip off, no buttons, no clasp and no drama convenience that got me hooked. In other words, it’s the tamad look.

Any garment worth the trouble should only require slipping over through the neckline and the armholes and should promptly fall into place automatically. 

I’ve been encouraged by well-meaning friends to try more elaborate, dressier outfits and I have heeded their advice for, oh, maybe a few hours. I simply can’t do the blouse thingy — floppy, frilly, floral frou-frous drown me. I’ll do the occasional flounce thing or unearth the few English garden, Workshy button fronts I got from Chelsea but that’s only when Mercury turns retrograde.

That sweltering day in school, I was wearing a shirtdress and after seeing me in them for all of his life, my son, all of a sudden, wasn’t a happy camper.  

“But it’s what I wear all the time. It’s practically a long T-shirt,” I said to underscore how it isn’t red carpet garb.

“Yeah, Mom. Still. It’s like you’re going to a party.” 

“You don’t like it,” I said.

“Yes.”

I was even more confused but I let it go.

Another time, not long thereafter, on the eve of his black belt promotion test, I asked him if it was all right for me to miss it because of a funeral I needed to attend. “You have to be there, Mom,” he said.  

“But you don’t want me ‘dressed,’ right?” I chided.

He smiled.

“Why,” I asked him.  “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

He struggled to explain. “It’s… well… you look like Gloria.”

“Huh?  Gloria? Of Modern Family?”

“Yes.  People look at you.”

Modern Family is a hit American TV sitcom with an ensemble cast, one of which is Colombian actress Sofia Vergara, who plays the hilarious and loveable character, Gloria. She is known for her well-endowed figure as much as her comedic talents. But wait a minute. I know I could be hilarious. I’m certain I’m loveable to him — he is my son.  But voluptuous? Health charts prove I am a tad underweight for my height. I couldn’t be Gloria even if I wanted to.

“What do you mean?  How?  I asked him.

“I don’t know. It’s like Gloria when you wear those dresses.  Why can’t you just be normal?”

“What’s normal?” I asked him.

“You know, normal, like pants and a shirt.”

“Shirt? Like button-down oxfords? Those things? Those polos?”

“Yes, those!” he cheered.

Dang, I thought, I might as well buy a Flying Nun outfit and pick up an Amish get-up for good measure.

I couldn’t help but question the disapproval of my shirtdresses all of a sudden. And then it dawned on me that it could be the length. T-shirt dresses are short by their very nature. It could be that or it could be because they are form fitting. They are T-shirts: Duh! Could it be my age?

This age thing set off my interior monologue. Does my son think I’m too old to show my knees? But my friend, style guru and former supermodel, Tetta Ortiz Matera, argues beautifully against such proscribed Jurassic rules on middle-aged dressing. She believes that women should wear what they are comfortable in as long as they stay within the bounds of tastefulness. “Go ahead, show some leg no matter if you’re over 40,” she says.

More than that you couldn’t pay me to ever part with my T-shirt dresses. I would rather die.

On the day of his taekwondo test, I made sure to wear jeans and a T-shirt in spite of the oppressive 37-degree heat. During the sparring portion (what I’ve always thought to be the height of barbarism), as he battled his opponent, I was a bundle of nerves trying to maintain composure. But, predictably, I failed. In the middle of the match, I was on my feet jumping and shouting at the top of my lungs, “Go, Ayrton, go!” I was cheering for him to move in for the kill to end it already. I caught myself screaming at some point, “Pull his hair if you have to!”

And then it dawned on me as I looked around: I am the only one standing. I am the only one jumping. I am the only one shouting.  I am an over-the-top soccer mom! I am Gloria!  S***!

I contemplated my son’s quarrel with the shirtdresses for a good number of days after that, unable to come up with anything, until I remembered a friend who has similar issues with them.

But hers is a bit more complicated. She also is a big fan of T-shirt dresses. Her long-time boyfriend gifts her with the most adorable pieces. His latest finds are from the Amy Winehouse collection of Fred Perry— cuteness! He enjoys seeing her in them but note that he has massive fits of jealousy when she wears them out. So I asked him, “Why buy them if you’re going to have a cow each time she wears them?”

“Because she looks good in them,” he said.

“And the problem is?” I asked.

“She can only wear them when she’s with me. I don’t like other men looking at her — only me!”

Hmmm… And men say women are irrational?

So maybe my son’s recent rise to manhood has turned him irrational too. It’s a thought. Could it be that his consciousness has opened up to the female anatomy of non-blood relations and to the territoriality over those of family members?

Does this mean I am left with no recourse but to de-Gloria-fy? Or do I simply carry on with my love affair with T-shirts and shirtdresses because I live for them and just show him in every other way that no shirtdress or glances from other males will alter the fact that I am his mother? Do I hold my own or please him?  Do I switch my style sensibilities to the Ellen Degeneres mode of plaid, stripes, and trousers to make him happy — never mind that plaid and stripes make me dizzy daisy? 

I imagine, many would argue that mothers should bend over backwards, Cirque du Soleil-style, to accommodate their son’s wishes—or any man’s, for that matter. But I’ll hold off on the Flying Nun getup and Amish outfits. My son is the biggest love of my life and I’ll make sure he knows that shirtdresses should be the least of his worries.

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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.