Meet the Surfer Mom
If you're in a style rut, tell yourself a better story.
Hi, and happy October!
A few months ago, the editors at The Good Sort—a new online fashion publication attached to a potentially addictive shopping platform called SearchBar—tapped me to write a personal essay about fashion.
Once upon a time, this request would have found me brimming with ideas. But post-baby and post-pandemic, I felt largely like a mush-pile when it came to clothes. It was a phase I was starting to emerge from, but not in a way I may have anticipated. This was no capsule wardrobe of denim and Breton stripes.
Rather, when I examined the clothes that made me feel excited, happy, relaxed, and most importantly, like myself, they were the ones I wear after I’ve gone surfing. Of course, it’s true that the act of going surfing makes me feel all of those things, but there seemed to be a little magic in wearing clothes that reminded me many hours (or sometimes days or weeks) later, that I was a person who had done that. That I was still stoked. Enter: the Surfer Mom.
I wrote this piece in the height of summer, and am curious to see if and how the look evolves into fall … I’m thinking my vintage Missoni men’s cardigan that verges on Big Lebowski territory will be crucial if it ever cools down here. God help me if I need to wear socks. (Maybe Prince purple Dueples, actually.)
I’m pasting the piece in full below, but I do recommend clicking over to The Good Sort to see what else they’ve got going on. They even edited a Surfer Mom shopping page that has a lot to like.
Have a good day—and week!
xx Jenni
P.S.
If you’re seeking more fashion inspiration, I’ve been really enjoying Becky Malinsky’s new email, 5 Things You Should Buy. Even if you (like me) are not trying to shop, she’s got great taste, a fun voice, and transports me to places where fall weather is real. And of course, Blackbird Spyplane is the reigning champion.
For decades, getting dressed brought me joy. It was a mode of personal expression. Then, in 2020, my sense of style was swamped by two tidal waves: pregnancy and the onslaught of Covid-19. When they receded after my daughter was born, I found myself disoriented in my own closet. Piles of soft, stretchy clothes and supportive sneakers had washed up where my rigid high-waisted jeans, vintage cotton tops, and clogs had once been.
For a while, it didn’t seem to matter: Where was I going that I couldn’t wear leggings anyway? And why not wear a practical and comfy nursing tank for a couple months after breastfeeding?
I’ll tell you why not. Because it made me sad. Fashion is a story we tell ourselves, and for a while my story was that I was a milk machine who seldom left the blocks surrounding her house. Sure, my clothes were comfortable, but they made me feel even more isolated than I already was.
I didn’t have the time or energy for a closet overhaul (though I did eventually fold that nursing tank into a giant Tupperware with outgrown baby clothes). But this summer, something resembling a coherent vibe is emerging, and I’m grabbing it with both hands. This is not a broader trend inspired by influencers or prescribed by fashion editors, but rather a pattern that I’ve stumbled upon as my semi-dormant style sense comes back to life. I’m telling myself a better story.
You could call it a philosophy, or even, more generously, a look. It may only exist in my mind, but it’s brought a little order to my universe and is making me feel like myself again. Somewhere deep in my brain, a little fashion-loving lizard is shouting: Yes!
Perhaps you’ve heard of the Coastal Grandmother — resplendent in her linen pants and cream-colored sweaters, epitomized by Nancy Meyers’ heroines in their marble counter-topped kitchens, and implanted into our brains via TikTok?
The Coastal Grandmother lifestyle embodies relaxation — a world where it always seems to be late morning or early evening, which is to say, time for a latte or a glass of wine. This post-menopausal hour of relaxation, The Atlantic’s Caitlin Flanagan brilliantly notes, is one that the CG has earned.
Well, this is not that. I’m a Surfer Mom.
The Surfer Mom isn’t there yet. Rather, she’s in the thick of it. Her kids are still young. She’d take a tequila-soda — and/or an edible — over some Chardonnay, and she may or may not be typing this from inside a coiled-up pregnancy pillow. (It hasn’t gone to a Tupperware yet; don’t judge.)
To be clear, I am actually a surfer and a mom, and while both catching waves and caring for my daughter bring me great joy, I’m still shaky at times doing both. I don’t feel wholly comfortable claiming either identity, except perhaps for where they merge. You might say, actually, that I surf like a mom and parent like a surfer — a little too cautious in the water, and a little too cavalier at the playground. But in both roles, continuing to paddle when terrified or exhausted has been essential — and delivered me at times, to happiness verging on euphoria. Whether or not I feel like an adept surfer or mother is irrelevant; I just keep doing it.
I’m bringing this same kooky determination to dressing these days. The Surfer Mom doesn’t ask “Am I pulling this off?” as she barrels full-speed ahead in a sweet pair of bike shorts with a perfect pocket for a kid’s smoothie cup. (It’s probably for a cell phone.) It’s not that I feel beautiful or cool with a miniature milkshake on my hip; it’s that I feel comfortable, and even a little amused. With a high-necked tank and a neon sandal, I’m telling the world—and perhaps more importantly, myself—that I’m doing this thing with joy and aplomb, and hanging onto my sense of humor.
Embracing an aprés-surf look long after I’ve rinsed out my wetsuit also reminds me that at some point earlier in the day (or the week, or my life), I was floating in the ocean staring at the horizon, or even better, gliding along a glassy wave. It’s helpful to access that same semi-relaxed and able-bodied person, for example, when we’re headed to Urgent Care on a holiday weekend and a squirrel has chewed through our power lines. (That was yesterday.)
Plus, when my one-year-old sends a spoonful of chili sailing through the air in my general direction, it’s nice to be wearing highly washable clothes. Form follows function, baby.
The Surfer Mom’s staples may be beloved, but precious they are not. Among my own, which tend toward a late ‘80s/early ‘90s color-blocking vibe (perhaps because that’s when I was forming my own impressions of what moms wear): sweatshirts from Heron Preston, Ilana Kohn, and Baserange; a long-sleeve tee from Smock; pale soft jeans and men’s swim shorts from Rachel Comey; a baseball cap from a local female-owned market; a handful of t-shirts from pizza places; a Patagonia fanny pack; Wayfarers on my dad’s old Croakie; yellow vintage OP corduroy shorts; drawstring pants from Isabel Marant and Xirena; a matching terry cloth shorts-and-tee set; a stripey Swatch; neon pink EVA Birkenstocks.
And how does a Surfer Mom dress up, you ask? Casually. When I went for dinner recently at a fancy Hollywood hotel, I skipped the ruffled sundress and went for a minimal black linen tank top with oversized white jeans, and a swipe of chalky pink Zinka-ish lipstick.
One need not be a surfer or a mom to embrace the Surfer Mom state of mind. Its power lies in liberation from any pressure a person might feel to look polished or cool. White sunscreen on your nose? You’re not a dork, you’re responsible. Unbrushed hair? You’re not haggard, you’re beach-y. Unidentifiable stain on your sweatshirt? You’re too chill to even notice!
You’re a surfer, mom