M had a big presentation for his history class on Friday. He was up late the night before preparing for it, and his teeth hurt from the orthodontist, so he wasn’t in the best mood Friday morning even without the stress.
Friday morning he got dressed in khakis, a rugby shirt, and a pink pullover sweater. It was actually my sweater, still in his closet because wore it for a seniors-wear-pink-on Valentine’s-Day thing, and it was so tight on him that he had torn a hole in the elbow. He asked if the sweater looked OK, and I told him it didn’t. (It actually looked totally ludicrous but I didn’t say that.)
I asked what look he was going for, and he said “more formal.” OK, then the too-small pink sweater was definitely out. I suggested his green-and-black button-down shirt. Which he put on, then added a beige sweater over it, because he said he didn’t want to wear the button-down shirt untucked, but didn’t want people to see his shirt tucked in. Huh? I totally don’t understand teenage boy clothing rules. At least the final outfit looked OK.
By this point he was running so late that I wasn’t sure if he’d catch the bus in time. So I took pity on the exhausted, nervous kid with the aching mouth and drove him to school, which is a few miles of detour on my way to work.
It was all quite a contrast to E’s wardrobe commentary heading out the door that same morning: “This sweater is linty, oh so what, it’s Friday and I don’t have any meetings.” And quite a contrast to the first 16 years of M’s life, in which he’d wear whatever shirt and whatever pants were on top of the stacks in his dresser.
Oh, and later in the day? M said his presentation went fine. Good!