I’m not going to lie: I don’t know what people are talking about.
I was waiting for a cashier at an insanely busy store. In front of me were a mother and her daughters. One of the girls – fifteen, I would hazard a guess – was picking up everything in the tempting bins along the queue, commenting on it, inspecting it, and then returning it to the bin. Mom pretended it wasn’t going on.
Then the daughter dropped an anvil on her mother’s head.
No, not really. Mom said something about the other daughter borrowing her jeans and Little Miss Inspector protested, “No. Those are mom jeans.”
Now, I may not be hep to the jive, but I can translate That Tone. I had heard “mom jeans” before, but I was pretty sure that it just meant jeans that don’t sag low or create “muffin top.”
So later, I queried my posse on FB. I knew some of the teenagers would answer with snark – it being their native tongue and all. So I set out the rule: “And please don’t tell me ‘Jeans that moms wear.'”
The first response I got was “Jeans that teenagers don’t wear” which is snark for “Don’t tell me what not to tell you.” Rotten kids.
Luckily, an adult explained that I was on the right track: high-waist, but usually washed an unattractive colour and fitting badly around the buttocks. Well, that clears up any confusion.
Now if only someone could explain who that sad woman is, the one who is going to jail with her husband. Her heavily-made-up face peers from a couple of magazines. Is she related to Bruce Jenner? Or is that another one?
But maybe I don’t want to know. I was happier when I thought Paris Hilton was a hotel in France, and my IQ seemed a little higher before my brain stored the foibles of that Disney princess Milly Twerker.