By unspoken agreement and mutual consent, most of the parents who handle morning drop-off at D's school are dressed down. Waaaaay down. We're talking one step up from jammies, hair in a ponytail (or hat), make-up totally optional. Those that stay home are dressed to return there. Those that work are dressed tastefully for work. We are, after all, a parochial school and there are men and women of the cloth about.
But, as in all situations, there are a choice few who choose to flaunt the norm. They edge right up to the line of modesty and good taste and stand there, proudly, screaming "LOOK AT ME! ME! MEEEEEE!" to the short-n-tshirt clad masses. They talk loudly about how plastered they got this past weekend. The laugh loudly and inappropriately at nothing. They flirt with each other, your husband and the PE coach. They talk about you while you're talking about them. They are the Drama-mamas.
Up until this year, the main object of my amused fascination in the morning was a woman I'll call Sport. The mother of two girls, she has sported just about every trend or fashion that they'd see on MTV or maybe even E!TV. She is clearly dressing to attract attention, to fuel drama and maybe even controversy, a strategy that is clearly working well for her given the cluster of people around her in the mornings. Thigh-high boots? Check. Orangey over-tanned body with mismatched face? Check. Mini-skirt? Check. Full makeup and hair with work out clothes? Check. To her, tight, revealing, flashy and inappropriate are good things. (Granted, she has both the attitude and bod to carry off these things. Who knows? If I looked like her I'd probably show up wearing a bikini and stilletos, carrying a coffee mug filled with vodka.)
This year Sport has some competition for the main Drama-mama at school. A new Mama is in town. We'll call her the Bond Girl. Tall, starved to willowy perfection, sculpted (think knives, not weights), Botoxed and so shiny she looks like a penny. Her large blonde bouffant doesn't move, her make-up never runs, her teeth are impossibly white and large, her heels are so high she needs supplemental oxygen. I don't know where she was the first few weeks of school -- sunning on some gorgeous South Pacific island? couldn't bear to close up the summer place in Cote d'Azur? -- because I just noticed her this week and there's no way I could have overlooked her up 'til now. Naturally she has drawn some of the minor satellites orbiting Sport, but so far there has been no obvious sign of competition other than an ever-so-slight uprise in bouffant height and a slight increase in volume. So far she's stuck to a uniform of high-heels, unbelievably tight designer jeans and either tank tops or shiny wrap tops. Perhaps she had to assess the competition before breaking out the minis? Perhaps her thigh-high boots are out for re-heeling after a busy summer trampling on others? Perhaps she'll trump Sport's wardrobe of skintight sheath dresses and go straight for evening wear?
Luckily, I shall be able to observe and report all of the Drama for you from my nearly-invisible position amongst the other normally dressed moms and dads. I wonder who will up the ante first?