In an attempt to dilute some of my Walmart / Big Gulp / TJMaxx / Republican Party tendencies, I have decided to learn the game of chess.  Not from a book or an online class, as you may suspect; rather, I am a student of the Ridgeview Elementary Chess Club.  I go there from 3-4 every Friday afternoon under the guise of “volunteering,” but really I’m just getting free chess lessons from another Ridgeview mom who’s a whole lot smarter than I am.  (Logic follows that her son would, therefore, be a whole lot smarter than my son but that, of course, is a cosmic impossibility.  He can’t be.  He can’t be.)

My third-grade boy is enthralled with this Chess Club.  Now before you dismiss him as nerdy bookish, I gotta tell you that this chess club is hot!  As in, there’s a big long waiting list of kids who want to get in, and once you’re in, it’s standing room only.  Seriously, these kids love chess.  Or maybe they just love Chess Club, it being the crowning social event of the elementary school workweek.  Either way, Ethan was thrilled to make “the cut” (okay, so it’s on a first come, first serve basis, but we’re pretending he qualified for something, somehow.)

The best part about Chess Club is

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the opening lesson.  After the masses of children are settled and before play begins, they cluster around a large whiteboard for rudimentary instruction on the game’s fundamentals.  The “Chess Coach” (i.e., an Overachieving Mother Who Makes Me Feel Inadequate Since All I’ve Ever Taught My Own Children Is How To Make Chocolate Chip Cookies Or Rather, How To Eat The Dough) gives a simple but thorough lesson on the movements of pawns, rooks, bishops, and knights.  Thankfully, she uses short words and animated facial expressions so that moms like myself can grasp the concepts.  See, I used to know how to play chess–in the third grade, as a matter of fact.  I remember playing at school during rainy recesses and loving every minute of it.  But then I got older and got busy with cooler other things.  Now, of course, I regret giving up what would surely have been an illustrious chess career and want to brush up my skills to impress you play with my son.  Thus, scamming free lessons volunteering at Chess Club was born.  If only the “Coach” knew how crafty I was; she might even promote me to her assistant.  Because chess, I’m quickly learning, is all about craftiness.

Seeing the game through an adult’s eyes, I’m fascinated by its long history, military origins and, above all, its organized complexity masked as simplicity.  The whole game could be an medieval wartime strategy.  Characters are posed for battle, moved diabolically, captured and conquered, all in an effort to protect the King and win the battle.  It’s a complicated means to a simple end.  And a pretty accurate reflection, I’m guessing, of the role subjects played on the real military and political battlefields of the past and still, though more figuratively, the present.  They say Life imitates Art, but I’d suggest that Life imitates Chess.

So with that maxim in mind, lean in and listen closely to what the Chess Coach told us, ever so matter-of-factly, in our last lesson.  Listing the various chess pieces on the board and explaining how many points each was worth, she finally arrived at the bottom of the list, wherein rested the names of both King and Queen.  At that point, the all-seeing, all-knowing Chess Coach said (and I quote):

“The King is most important.  But the Queen is most powerful.”

Did I say Life imitates Chess?  Perhaps Chess imitates Life.  And what was that part about organized complexity masking as simplicity?  Look at the women around you.  We may bat our doe eyes, but we know what we are doing.  And we know that power–often referred to in women as influence–will trump status, every time.  The King may rule the commoners, but we rule the King.

You go, girl.

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My goal this fall is to stop wearing “yoga pants” (shameless euphemism for pajamas pants) to the grocery store.  Or to Target.  Or to the Post Office.  Or–dare I admit it?–to the mall.

My goal this fall is to start dressing like the forty-year old woman I am instead of the twenty-five-year old girl I think I am.  My goal this fall is to put a little more effort into my appearance even when no one else is looking–which is a good idea since these days, no one else is ever looking.  (Actually, No One Else hasn’t been looking since 1995.)  My goal this fall is to stop using “but I’m only cleaning my house today” as an excuse to look like a train wreck every day.

True, I live a small life in a small town wherein the range of my travel starts at Walmart, loops around Costco and The Pita Pit, then ends at the public library, but this is no excuse to look like a bag lady every time I step out of my “car” (shameless euphemism for minivan.)  True, these errands are often done at the last minute on “cleaning day,” (which has somehow become every day), and so to pause for fussy personal grooming habits, like getting dressed, feels like a waste of precious vacuum and mop time.  True, most of my housework and errands are more easily done in cushy running shoes and an elastic waistband.  But for my fortieth fall, I have decided that the years in which personal comfort can coexist with looking half-decent are long, long gone.

I could pull off the yoga (pajama) pants and makeupless face in my twenties because, well, I was gorgeous back then.  (Dare to disagree with me.  Dare!)  And my early thirties brought with them the

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Young Motherhood phase, during which all expectations of attractiveness are rightly ignored by both Young Mother and Sympathetic Passerby.  But creeping into my late-thirties, I felt the winds change.  I would run into cute young moms bearing yoga (pajama) pants and makeupless faces and assume that, in my own yoga (pajama) pants and makeupless face, I was one of them–until I looked down and noticed I was the only one without a toddler hanging on my leg.  Oh yeah, I’d remember suddenly.  My kids can open their own fruit snacks and wipe their own bums.  And yet there I stood, doggedly loyal to my cotton-lycra blend.  While the physical toll of Young Motherhood had left its scars deeply imprinted on my body, there was no excuse for the scars it had left on my wardrobe.  After ten frazzled years, I was finally getting eight hours of  sleep a night and leaving the house without two days of advanced planning. Why was I still wearing yoga (pajama) pants?

Well, I’ll tell you why:  because they’re comfy.  And easy.  And lazy.  And they stretch.  The longer I go without washing my y/p pants, the skinnier I get.  But the longer I wear my y/p pants around town, the lazier I get–and that’s a problem.  As the weeks slide into months slide into years, I’m finding it’s harder and harder to squeeze into those freshly washed Buckle jeans, even when a gala event calls for it.  I remember back in the 80’s, before the arrival of yoga (pajama) pants, jeans were thought to be the most comfortable, casual pant of a woman’s wardrobe.  Ha!  Little did we know that a magic garment would soon arrive (in a magic store called Target) that would make blue jeans feel like armor; that wearing this garment would make walking around feel as good as lying in bed, only with the fitted and top sheet sewn loosely down the side of each leg.  Once we ’90s gals discovered yoga (pajama) pants–not to mention their ugly stepchild, the Cutoff Sweats–there was no going back to stiff and scratchy old denim.  Fifteen years later, I still can’t let go.  Jeans for cleaning?  Too restrictive.  Jeans for the grocery store?  Way too dressy.  Jeans for a Sunday afternoon, sitting by the fire?  As if.  (Have you ever sat by the fire in denim for more than five minutes?  Talk about hot pants!)  And so, rather than stuffing myself into jeans, I’ve been jiggling myself into yoga (pajama) pants for the last decade and a half.  And it’s time to stop.

So if you should see me about town, getting gas or groceries or better yet, a pedicure, and I look a little red in the face, don’t mistake it as embarrassment for forgetting your name (which is likely, considering my newly advanced age.)  Rest assured that I am simply adjusting to the confinement of Real, Fancy Jeans.  It’s been a long time since these thighs have made a swishing sound when rubbing together as I walk, but I guess that’s the price of high fashion.  And don’t you worry about my beloved yoga (pajama) pants getting their feelings hurt; they’ll remain folded quietly on a back shelf of the closet, waiting patiently for the next Cleaning Day to come ’round.  But I am determined that those pants will never again see the light of day outside my house.  Unless, of course, I have to wipe up a spill in the fridge on my way out the door.  (I wouldn’t want to get anything on my jeans.)  Or vacuum my car on the way to the mall (you can’t manage that kind of hard labor in denim.)  And who doesn’t need some breathing room when meeting friends for dinner?  (It’s geeky to overdress.)

Hmm.  Perhaps it’s time to look into the Pajama Jeans I saw on tv the other day.  Talk about a fusion of fashion and freedom.  But that’s a whole ‘nother post.

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Okay, I’m not going to ask you to look at pictures of my kids in their halloween costumes. But I am going to ask for the next five minutes of your life as we discuss some Trick-or-Treating rules that I have, through my years of being the candy-passer-outer, decided should be honored by all who knock on my door on October 31st between 6 and 9 pm.

Trick-or-Treating Rules That Should Be Honored By All Who Knock On My Door On October 31st Between 6 and 9 pm. 

1.  Trick-or-Treaters over the age of fifteen will be denied candy.  A student i.d. card and/or birth certificate will be heretofore required before Fun Size KitKat is dispensed.

2.  Trick-or-Treaters bearing exposed chest hair, yelling “trick or treat!” in a deep voice, and weighing more than my husband and me put together will–despite all protests to the contrary–be assumed to exceed the Trick-or-Treating age requirement and will thus be denied candy.

3.  Trick-or-treaters wearing costumes purchased at 

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Castle will be denied candy.  (Castle is an adult “superstore” which I have never been to but I understand sells–ahem–saucy Halloween costumes.  I think we saw some of them parade across our porch last night.  Wish I was kidding.)

4.  Trick-or-treaters over the age of fifteen who are wearing a hoodie zipped up with the  drawstring pulled tight to cover the lower half of his/her face, will be denied candy.  (This does not constitute a costume.  Nor does it hide the fact that you are over fifteen.)

4.  Trick-or-treaters standing behind the cute small kids on the porch, presumably as their mothers, who then step forward at the last minute with a candy bag and a “trick or treat!” of their own–thus revealing themselves not as mothers, but older sisters/aunts/cousins/random female acquaintances–will be denied candy.

5.  Said sisters/aunts/cousins/random female acquaintances who hold out a second candy bag and inform me (without smiling) that “there’s a baby in the car,” will be denied candy.

6.  Said baby in car who is too small to walk, talk or pass solids will be denied candy.

7.  Trick-or-treaters who, after receiving one piece of candy, continue to hold out their bag, shaking it for more, will be denied a second piece of candy.  Ask a third time, and I’ll take back the first.

8.  Trick-or-treaters whose parents stand by, silent and smiling, as their child shakes for second piece of candy and does not say thank you for the first, will be denied a second piece of candy while their parents will be denied my goodwill.  (I’m gonna pretend that hurts them.)

9.  Trick-or-treaters who are young, in costume, say thank you, and seem happy and excited about Halloween night will be granted access to multiple pieces of candy.  (The good stuff.  I’m mean, but not cheap.)

10.  Trick-or-treaters whose parents stand back on the sidewalk, remind their kids not to cut through the lawn, remind their kids to say “thank you,” say “thank you” themselves, then yell out “Happy Halloween!” as they walk away will be granted access to my candy, my hearth and home, and my checking account.

Now lest I’ve misrepresented myself, you should know that I actually love Halloween.  I love the pumpkins and the parties and the cute kids in costumes.  I love passing out candy and seeing the darling little faces made up as pirates and princesses; I love chatting with my neighbors as they flow across my porch and lawn (which, by the way, I couldn’t care less if kids cut across.  It’s just nice to hear their parents tell them not to.)  I know Halloween is supposed to be a gaudy, garish, free-for-all, and I’m a big fan of gaudy, garish free-for-alls (come shop with me at Ross sometime.)  However, Halloween has reached the point wherein the bottom line is the Bottom Line, and someone has to speak up for those of us swiping our debit cards.  Halloween Candy in 2013 costs the earth, and I want to give it to cute, costumed kids who are excited by the magic of the evening, not teen moms with a “baby in the car.”  (Not that I have anything against teen moms with babies in the car.  That is not the statement I’m making with this post.  Oh nevermind, let’s just not go there.)  My Trick-or-Treating Rules may be out of fashion, but my purchasing power is not.  In short:  she with the candy makes all the rules, they who want the candy must follow them.  If that makes me seem a little uptight and stingy, just remember:  on the 31st of October, I’m under no cultural mandate to be charitable.  This ain’t Christmas, hoodie boy (man.)

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