Being “that Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride,” and eager to give proper reverence to this very solemn and celebratory occasion, I wanted, bordered on needed, to pick the perfect outfit. Not every day your kid graduates from college! Ya know? I’m not a high-maintenance kinda girl when it comes to most things, but when it comes to clothes, shoes and accessories; I’m all kinds of girlie-girl. My closets runneth over. That “s” on “closet” is no typo, intentionally plural, as I have a pretty substantial overflow situation going on and am now stuffing crap into other closets in my house. If only I had a walk-in closet the size of my neighbor’s pirate flag. Sigh…
|I guess he’s kinda cute, but not really my type|
I opted for a black dress with a geometric-ish print of cream, red and black on the top half and paired it with red patent shoes with mere 5 inch heels. “Scarlet.” Perfect. I did NOT, however, opt to take into any consideration whatsoever the venue, the climate or the mileage to be trekked by foot on this most joyous of occasions. Proud Mamma wanted to be “fancy” and the decision making process started and stopped at “fancy.” Done. Fashion first; common sense second (or not at all).
|My girl Jessica Simpson…She. Gets. Me.|
Based on the hard fashion lessons I learned on this momentous day, this here is gonna be a few basic, nonetheless important, guidelines. Sherrie Sherrie’s “What NOT to Wear to a Commencement,” if you will.
|The boyfriend in all his tassely sashy thingies glory|
My daughter, being “that sister and girlfriend, oh-so-full-of-pride” and also being in a congratulatory state-of-mind, selected a cute summery spaghetti strap blue dress of a light-weight breezy fabric. Clearly, this girl is smarter than her Mamma. Tip #3, breathable fabric, wear it. My dress, I believe, was constructed of a material similar to that of duct tape. No air was getting through that shit, unless I cut holes directly through it. Had I any scissors in my purse I would have done just that. Snip. Snip. Snip. Music to my ears. No such luck. Scissors R Us not to be found.
Mother and daughter set off to see their soon-to-be alumni graduate, Ms. Fancy-Shoes and her Fancy-Shoes daughter. We park in a gravel lot about 2.7 miles away from the stadium (I’m only slightly exaggerating here). We demonstrate some our best skateboarding and surfing moves (we have done neither in our lifetimes) while balancing our platforms on the uneven rocks that “paved” our way to the mirage ahead that is the sidewalk. Ahh… cement… you are a beautiful, beautiful thing. I refrained from actually getting down on my hands and knees and kissing it. We walked swiftly at that point on the smooth even surface. It's damn near tropical in O-hi-o, but we were only “misty” or “dewy” or something of that refined nature, not sweating yet.
We finally get to this “Shoe.” Guests are only allowed in through the one entrance and we are no, no where near said secret passageway. Now is that any way to treat "guests?" Walking around the shoe. Walking around the shoe. Stop. Stand and wait while swarms of graduates filter in their “special” gates. Roast in sun. Repeat this process 20 times. This “Horseshoe” they speak of? Clearly fashioned for a mutant Clydesdale. Mile marker 4.1. My oversized sunglasses are preventing any air from circulating in and around my eyeballs and I feared they may burst from the heat. Remove glasses, fan eyeballs, blot eye sweat. Repeat this 10 times. My duct tape dress was not very absorbent. Go figure. It did not wick a single drop of moisture away from my body so sweat was dripping down and pooling into crevices that I didn’t even know that I had. How’s that for fancy? Full-fledged sweating and we aren’t even at our seats yet. “Thank God I didn’t make him wear pants. Thank God!”
By the grace of Jessica Simpson, my feet were faring well. My daughter’s? Not so much. Tip #5, break-in new shoes prior to wearing. Her title now, “that sister and girlfriend, oh-so-full-of-blisters.” We bummed a few band-aids off a sweet lady but not before her barefoot gets stomped on and the flesh is ripped from her big toe. Hot, sweaty, injured, we, at last, end our long journey and make our way to our seats, silver roasting rack bleachers in the oven that is the Ohio Stadium set at broil. I pray (no joke on this one) for the elderly people who needed medical assistance and were wheeled or stretchered off. God Bless them for wanting and attempting to see their loved ones graduate in that heat. Amen!
Between thought-provoking, funny and touching speeches, we alternated using our programs as fans, stay-cool seat cushions and sun hats. “That Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride,” added to the overall dehydration process with random bouts of tears. Remove glasses, fan eyeballs, blot eyes. Repeat this 10 times. The graduates filed down in a rapid procession and marched onto the field to get their diplomas, like tiny black ants, almost indistinguishable from where we sat. I see my son! I see my son! I wave frantically! I take a picture. Oh, wait… that’s not him. Repeat this 7 times.
“That Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride” & her graduate! :)