Nana, the sherry drinker (scroll back to mid-October), is a snappy dresser. My father refers to her as "Lady Got-rocks." She likes some bling, mixed with an artsy sweater, blouse, wool slacks and wild socks. Her shoe assortment is vast, despite having been forced to give up heels some years back. She strives to look hip, but also appropriate. She loathes frumpiness. Despite this, she rejects many trends as being too young. She shakes her head and says, "I'd be mutton dressed as lamb in that."
I bring this up because the Larger Hooligan came shambling downstairs this morning, fully dressed in dark skinny jeans. We noticed they fit him oddly. "What's wrong with your jeans?" I asked, "Do you need a belt?"
"They fit weird," he said. "Did you get me new ones?" Upon closer inspection, we realized that he was wearing my jeans. He went upstairs and changed.
I have been wearing jeans that are confused with those worn by pre-teen boys. I just turned 42. I fear that I am committing a grave fashion error, according to Nana, anyway: Mutton Dressed as Lamb.