Today I called Emma Kate because I had a little news I wanted to share with her, but when I said, “I have some news,” she immediately assumed that I was pregnant. Which of course I’m not. And if I were? Hello? I would have totally told the whole internet by now.

For the record, I would like to state that the assumption of pregnancy is perhaps the very toughest act to follow in terms of storytelling expectations. Anything after that is a letdown. It’s like someone guessing that your husband gave you a trip around the world for Christmas – and then you have to say no, actually, he gave me hubcaps.

I know whereof I speak on this particular issue because when I was eleven my daddy proudly gave my mama hubcaps for Christmas, and Mama thought it was a joke because she had spent the entire month of November dropping four or eighty-six hints that she wanted a pair of diamond earrings. Daddy, however, believed that the hubcaps were a perfectly lovely gift because at the time Mama was driving a Ford that lost a hubcap whenever she thought about driving over a pebble.

Needless to say, Mama failed to see the merit in the practical nature of Daddy’s tenderhearted yuletide gesture.

And also needless to say, when EK heard my actual news this afternoon, she wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as she would have been over, say, a baby, so I just gave up on my story and instead asked her what she was doing, because as best as I could tell she was wadding up plastic grocery bags and rubbing them against the mouthpiece of her phone.

As it turned out, she was buying some jeans. I can’t remember the specific brand EK was purchasing, but I can tell you without hesitation that they were not in fact Mom Jeans because Miss Thing would rather cut her hair with a butter knife than wear anything with pleats around the midriff area.

This is after all the same girl who contemplated ending her engagement when her then-fiance’ (now-wonderful husband) questioned whether or not she “needed” a skirt she bought at Goldsmith’s, at which point Emma Kate called me in tears and said in all seriousness that there was absolutely no way she could marry a man who didn’t recognize the importance of a good skirt. However, she came to her senses about fifteen minutes later, and you’ll be glad to know that they continue to live happily ever after.

Anyway, EK told me that she doesn’t mind spending a little extra on good jeans because she wears them every single day. And she doesn’t know it, but her statement about wearing blue jeans every single day has provoked great thought on my part, because what I have come to realize over the course of this afternoon is that I am not a dedicated jeans-wearer, by and large. I mean, I have some jeans, but I am by no means a jeans-connoisseur. As long as I can get away with boot-cut, I’m happy. As long as that whole skinny jeans thing is water under the bridge, I’m good to go.

I think part of the reason for my lack of jeans-dependence is because Mama always discouraged them. I’ve told y’all before about her deep and abiding disappointment in what I was wearing the night D. proposed, and I really think that if I saw her wearing a pair of blue jeans – which, just to be clear, is something I have never seen in my whole life – I would probably require some sort of therapy to recover from the shock of it all.

I’ve never seen D.’s mother wear jeans, either, though she does have some “darling Liz Claiborne pants, I mean they’re not really denim but they sort of look like a darker denim with white stitching? And they’re not tight or anything, oh heavens no, but they do have a little stretchy stretch to them, just enough so that they don’t hug your hips and thighs but they’re not really jeans, heavenly days no, because you know really if you think about it, jeans are sort of scratchy! They are! They’re scratchy!”

So, in the interest of fully exploring this Deeply Important Topic, I have determined that I need to give jeans a more prominent position in my wardrobe. If you have a favorite brand that will not require me to withdraw money from Alex’s college fund in order to purchase them, please let me know.

And please don’t suggest that I buy anything even remotely resembling low-riders. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that the outcome of that particular fashion scenario would be a muffin-top effect so stunning that you’d want to slap some butter on me and warm me up in the microwave.

A few days ago Alex and I had to get out of the house in a hurry because some people were coming by with a realtor. I had been cleaning and scrubbing and vacuuming since about 7:30 that morning, so by the time we made our hasty exit at 11, I was a mess. My hair wasn’t fixed, I hadn’t taken a shower, I was wearing zero make-up, and I had on these gaucho-ish workout pants that are not attractive in the least but are as comfortable as all get out when you’re spending a morning up to your elbows in Pine Sol.

I didn’t have time to change clothes or, you know, bathe before we left, but I was so frazzled by that point that I really didn’t care. I figured I’d run through the McDonald’s drive-thru, grab some lunch, and then Alex and I would head to the park and commence with the killing of time. Plus, given the condition of my appearance, at least if we were at the park people might think that I’d been hoofing it on the walking trail just moments before I sat down at a picnic table to systematically demolish an order of McValue fries. And a cheeseburger.

As soon as we got to the park Alex noticed a lady who happens to work at his Mother’s Day Out, and all I could think was, “WELL, THAT FIGURES” because it never fails that I run into someone I know when I look my absolute worst. We made small talk for a few minutes, and in an attempt to explain why I looked like death warmed over, I offhandedly mentioned that oh, someone was looking at our house, we were in a hurry when we left as she could probably tell, ha ha ha ha ha, all the while hoping that she wouldn’t think I was some deranged mama who was unfamiliar with Why Good Hygiene Is Important.

In the meantime, a little girl who was probably one and a half kept running over to me, lifting up her arms, and trying to crawl into my lap. Alex was infinitely entertained by the fact that “the girl baby” wanted to play with his mama, and since the girl baby’s parents didn’t seem to object, I picked her up and let her play with the toy from Alex’s Happy Meal. She’d sit in my lap for a little bit, then jump down and run to her mama, then climb back in my lap, and so it went for about the next ten minutes.

When the little girl climbed down for about the twelfth time, I mentioned to her mama, who looked to be about my age, that I was flattered that her daughter seemed to like me so much.

And here is what her mama said to me:

“Well, you do look like her grandmother!”

OH YES SHE DID.

OH YES SHE DID.

I just sat there, stunned, trying not to feel offended, reminding myself that I’m not in fact getting any younger and that being a grandmother is one of life’s greatest blessings. Grandmothers are loving, they’re wise, they’re treasured – they’re the apples of their grandbabies’ eyes.

However, grandmothers are not, as a general rule, IN THEIR THIRTIES.

So in my head I tried to put a spin what she said, tried to remember that I didn’t exactly leave the house with a youthful glow that morning, tried to justify that maybe she meant the grandmother and I have a similar body type, or maybe the grandmother and I have a similar-sounding voice.

But at the same time, I couldn’t help but channel a little bit of Suzanne Sugarbaker and think, “Well, if I’d wanted to be insulted, I’d have stayed at home and waited for a crank call!”

And please don’t misunderstand. I have high hopes of being a Sassy Grandmama, as I know several of you are. But I’ve sort of envisioned my late 50’s / early 60’s as being the Sassy Grandmama years. Not, you know, NOW.

I mean, y’all. I can’t help but feel like I may need a touch of the Botox.

Perhaps the plastic surgeon will give me some form of senior citizens’ discount!

And just FYI: I’m considering changing the name of the blog to BooMamaw.

Consider yourself warned.