Filter, please!

Getting older is quite an adventure I must say. One of the most interesting and rewarding aspect is having grown dependent children still at home. They are still your children, but they are old enough for you to engage with them as friends at times.

One of the pitfalls of getting old though, at least for me, is the malfunction of my filter. You know, that filter in your brain that keeps you from saying out loud the thought that is most likely best kept to yourself.

Sometimes my filter works just fine. At these times I’m able to remain mum and not say anything, merely expressing with my eyes that I am having thoughts that shouldn’t be spoken; successfully censoring myself in the conversation. Sometimes my filter is only half engaged. At these times I start to say the errant thought but am able to slap my hand over my mouth before anyone realizes my mistake, or at least the full extent of my wayward thought. Then there are times when my filter completely fails me. Before I even realize it a thought comes tumbling out of my mouth that never should have been given breath.

Today, while out clothes shopping with my nineteen year old son, that filter suffered a catastrophic failure.

He has decided that his style is a long sleeve striped button up shirt, a black vest, and jeans. Ok, probably not the height of fashion, but if he likes it that’s all that counts, right? Mind you, we live in a very warm climate. It is said that our area has but two seasons: hot and hotter. We have only just begun our hotter season.

As a dutiful mother, I set out to help him find the specific shirt style he desired in his size. “Now that’s the look I’m talking about!” he exclaimed admiring a gray and white stripped long sleeve button up shirt accented with a dark brown, distressed leather like vest. It was a combined look, not a two piece set. We searched the rack for a shirt his size, but came up empty. Just as we are about to give up my husband looks at the shirt on display and suggests we check the size. What luck! It was our son’s size.

Great! Now how much; he naturally has to have the set. Even on discount the shirt and vest were $45…each! Yes, each, $90 for the set. With an unwavering determination to add this new find to his closet he says, “This will work then.”

I didn’t even blink an eye before my mouth opened and out snapped,
“Dude, what are you, Metro?” My husband had to remove himself from the situation while laughing hysterically at the label I, the child’s loving and nurturing mother, bestowed upon our eldest son.

See? Filter malfunction. The boy stood wide eyed and bewildered wondering why his father was laughing so hard and his mother was beet red with her hand over her mouth. He apparently had never heard the term. I had heard it only recently and was shocked to not only learn it’s meaning, but at having used it and on my own son.

While the website I referenced gave quite a lengthy exposé on the term, it’s origin and application in today’s society, I was not so long winded in my explanation to my very confused child. In brief, a metrosexual – metro for short – is a male that spends a lavish amount of time and money, most often money they really don’t have, to spend on their appearance. Not batting an eye at laying down my Benjamin Franklin on a shirt and vest certainly earned him that label in my unfiltered mind.

Having regained my composure after my explanation, we were able to continue shopping and found him the same style in a much more acceptable price range. Later this evening, around the dinner table I was very pleased to find my filter was once again working at full capacity when I merely smiled at my husband’s comment, censoring a thought that was best left unspoken.


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