Let’s face it there’s a specific look and some rules to abide to if you want to fall under the category ” soccer mom”.
* a visor (mandatory)
* shorts (preferably khaki, distressed jean shorts are forbidden)
* those flip flops that are supposed to stimulate your circulation (don’t even know the brand, but I see them allover in Miami)
* tank (a variety of them, they can have a built in sport bra and also lots of “fancy” prints
* long mane of straight or wavy hair collected in a pony tail
* husband in tow ( as an accessory, whereas his accessory is his Saturday New York Times)
* a spray can of 70 SPF protection compulsively sprayed on their kid and shamelessly and aimlessly on a radius of 360 degrees (save yourself from the explosion)
Whichever order you want to read it: I don’t have/own any of ingredients, I swear, not even the khaki shorts.
I was reading the news on the Ipad, wearing baggy Adidas pants and Tiger sneakers, my hair is curly and short, I drive the smallest car ever seen in South Florida that gets actually unnoticed on the highway.
As my friend Alex says, I am that hybrid of Carrie from SATC in a Woody-esque way that a Saturday spent at the pool made me see the world from a different perspective.
Overall, not only was a fun sociological experience, but in my soul I must be a “soccer mom” since I found myself at the border of the lane screaming like a maniac to Cec on her last lap and crying irreparably when I saw her arriving first at relay.
