The Front Porch : Helpful sons serve as a frank fashion panel

I saw them everywhere I looked at NorthTown Mall last month – mothers and daughters. Armed with charge cards and stacks of clothing, they filled the mall with feminine chatter.

I shop alone.

I feel the lack of a daughter most acutely when I buy a pair of jeans.

I don’t mind the shopping alone part. Years of living in a male-dominated household have so indoctrinated me that I no longer view shopping as a social activity.

I don’t ask the opinions of sales clerks or strangers, especially after the black skirt incident. That’s when I tried on a skirt and stood in front of a mirror outside a changing room at a downtown store.

A fellow I assumed was waiting for his spouse sat nearby.

“You should get that. It’s very flattering on you,” he said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. I bought the skirt. The next day I put it on and thought I felt a cool draft on the back of my legs.

“What do you think of this skirt?” I asked my husband.

“Nice,” he said. “But I wouldn’t wear it to work. You might get cold.”

He pointed out the skirt was slit in the back to the very tip-top of my thighs – something I’d failed to observe as I stood before the store mirror.

I learned my lesson, and now I approach shopping like my husband or sons would. I need jeans – I go buy jeans, and I don’t talk to strangers.

But I’m a woman, and we gals are never quite sure if we’ve made the right choice. So, before I wear my new purchases out of the house, I look for some kind of reassurance.

Last week I sat my 15- and 17-year-old sons down for the Wearing of the Jeans. Hey, I’ve got to work with what I have.

They weren’t happy, but they like to eat, so they agreed to be my fashion panel.

I modeled my jeans in the living room and asked the question dreaded by every male on the planet: “Do these jeans make me look fat?”

“Ahhhh!!” screamed my oldest son. “How can a pair of pants make you look fat? Either you are or you aren’t. Pants have nothing to do with it!”

His younger brother, mindful that dinnertime was approaching, said, “They look good, Mom.”

I turned slowly and asked, “And how about the top?” “Looks nice,” said my oldest son, who was obviously getting hungry. “In fact, you look hot!”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. His brother began to pummel him.

“Ah! You said our mom looks hot! You’re sick, man, just sick!”

Ethan fended off his brother’s blows and hastened to clarify his remarks. “I just meant you’re buying younger-looking clothes, you know, like a cool mom.”

I stared at him in horror.

“That’s it,” I said. “These jeans are going back to the store!”

To my mind a “cool mom” is the one who buys her kids beer because “they’re going to drink it anyway.” She’s the one who allows her sons unlimited, unfiltered Internet access and says, “My boys wouldn’t look at anything inappropriate.”

The cool mom is the one who lets her son and his girlfriend spend hours alone in a bedroom with the door locked because “they’ve got a lot of homework.”

My son, seeing my pallor and worried by my faintness, tried to clarify.

“I don’t mean you’re like the moms who wear short shorts all summer so everyone can see their flabby thighs and cellulite,” he said.

“Cellulite. Gross!” added Alex.

“Yeah, women with cellulite is on our top 10 list of things to avoid,” Ethan paused. “We try to keep a 28-foot perimeter at all times.”

Warming to his theme, he continued, “You’re not one of those moms with artificial tans who wear tight, low-necked shirts that show wrinkly cleavage.”

“Wrinkly cleavage is just wrong,” Alex interjected.

Ethan patted my shoulder. “You’re just dressing cooler. You know, you’re really only sort of cool.”

Sort of cool? I can live with that.

“Thanks for your help, guys,” I said and turned to leave the room. “By the way tomorrow I’m going shoe shopping.”

I like to think the sobs I heard as I walked away were cries of delight. They’re such helpful young men.