In which I prove that women in their sixties (well, me, anyway) are absolutely capable of carrying a grudge for 45 years

So here is the conversation that popped full-blown into my head the day after I published last week's post, which was (in part) about the difficulty of being friends with people who have different priorities than I do, namely because I don't want to put much energy into hair, makeup, and fashion, and I am friends with a bunch of women who are stylish and put-together in a way that I probably never will be. 

My internalized mother (who bears a somewhat distorted resemblance to my real-life mother, and who will hereafter be referred to as IM): Well, Barb, if you really care about your friends, you should be willing to put in the little bit of effort it takes to be more stylish when you meet up with them. What's important to them should be important to you.

Me (deflates significantly, because it's not like she and I didn't have a variation of the conversation a million times when I was in high school): But Mom, isn't what I want just as important as what they want? Also, define "a little bit" of effort.

IM, who apparently speaks 90% in clichés: Looking your best is important, dear, especially when you're going out in public. You only get one chance to make a first impression. Why wouldn't you want to put your best foot forward? It shows that you are a competent adult who knows how to present herself in public.

Me: But trying to conform to cultural norms about clothing and beauty is exhausting! And demeaning! And I have other things I want to do! And anyway, why does dressing up always mean being uncomfortable*? 

* Seriously. Putting on comfortable clothes is synonymous with getting home and taking off your fancy clothes. There is no definition of "getting dressed up" that includes "putting on clean jeans, my favorite sweater, and a cute pair of low-cut hiking boots" which is what I want to wear when I go out to meet up with friends. Also "cute hiking boots" would be an oxymoron to my mom. And she could (rightly) point out that people who only go hiking half a dozen times a year don't get to wear hiking boots to a restaurant. Thank God I live in Montana, where hiking boots are acceptable just about everywhere.

Et cetera. You get the idea. Of course my 87-year-old mother would never say any of this to me now that I am 62. Although come to think of it, that might be because she lives 1500 miles away and never sees me when I'm getting dressed to go out. 

You know, typing this brought back a very distinct memory from high school that I probably haven't thought about in twenty (thirty? forty?) years. My senior year, there was an all night "casino" party at the mall after our graduation ceremony. I had picked out my outfit a couple of weeks earlier and I was happy with it-- jeans with blue satin stitching on the pocket, a blue and lavender striped short sleeved cotton top, and sandals (so shoot me, it was the 70s). My mom had no comment until my boyfriend showed up at the door in dark jeans, a black shirt, and a velvet jacket. She marched me back up the stairs and made me change clothes. 

I don't know how to describe the outfit she made me change into, I just remember that it was super uncomfortable and I kept on having to readjust it and pull on it and untwist the top. I can remember arguing with her-- moo-oom, I hate this top! and her hissing at me, you can't wear that other one! you're embarrassing me! I was mad at her for years. Ha. Since it's making me mad to type it out now, I guess I still haven't forgiven her. I'm so mature. 

This was going to be the first half of a longer post but it got so long so I'm done. Also I should probably edit it a bunch more, but in an effort to be less of a perfectionist, I'm just sending it off! Wheee!