Comments from the Peanut Gallery

I was putting my earrings in and just generally "fluffing up," as Oliver put on his basketball shoes in my bedroom yesterday morning. I wore a pair of jeans, a black tee-shirt and a light blue cardigan sweater with one button buttoned and a pair of red clogs. I squinted at myself in the mirror and probably sighed, but Oliver must have been appraising the goods because he said, Mom, you sorta have a style, but it's not like that many other people's. I asked him whether that was good, whether it's a good style or what, exactly do you mean? And then I steeled myself and waited for what I was certain would be a vanity-obliterating comment. He paused, though, and carefully said, Well, it's sort of a style, and maybe it'll be what people will wear eventually, like they'll catch on or something when they're older, but it's sorta good. I asked him what sort of style he thought I had, and he answered, Sort of like yoga - y and hippie-ish and momish all combined. And then he got up and walked out of the room, and I honestly didn't  know whether to feel flattered or resigned.