It's a pretty innocuous thing, a leopard print sweater. The specimen in particular was the suburban jungle kind, cheap cotton cardigan, size M, $15 at Target. I'm not exactly know for my fashion sense, but below the tomboy exterior (usually clothed in jeans/ sweats/ t-shirt/ tank-top/ gore-tex, or any variation), is the bonafide heart of Liberace, sass of Coco Chanel, and sensibility of David Bowie. I have a pinterest account, and I'm not afraid to use it to post $2500 Louboutins and Vintage Versace gowns. I will never in my life own either of those (I have 4 children to put through college), but my heart secretly lusts for bias-cut silk and the blessed red underside of those sexy, sexy shoes. It's my dirty little secret, and even though I will gripe and moan about dressing up, there's a part of me that loves the thrill of something different.

... And then there's a leopard print cardigan, a kind of strange no-man's land somewhere between hoody and sweats and casual dress with cowboy boots (a favorite of mine, no matter how Portland cliche that may be). A 38-year-old woman wearing a leopard print cardigan can be one of several things. Maybe she is a spunky, fun, tragically hip SE Portland-living graphic designer (bangs are a must), not afraid to rock the leopard print, able to casually laugh at how irreverent and spontaneous she is, how she laughs in the face of fashion rules. The leopard print cardigan is a mere tiny little exclamation point to her ensemble, because she is fierce! feisty! and gloriously independent! She may as well be wearing $400 cashmere, because judgement be damned, she'll define her own fashion, thank you.

She could also be a cast member reject from Jersey Shore. The only things her leopard print will be missing are pleather pants and heels, big hair, and jewelry, lots of jewelry. She's the kind of woman you  smell the perfume on 2 grocery aisles over, contemplating the endless subtle variations of canned spaghetti sauce, and suddenly catch a waft-- dear god, my sweet Aunt Ruth has risen from the dead-- only to find a vision of suburban perfection clickity clack around the corner. I secretly admire these women as much as I fear them, all big hair and floral-scented tacky sparkle, not giving a damn what your organic-carrot and kombucha buying, hoody-wearing ass thinks for a second. I'm pretty sure they all drive Escalades and are going to cut me off during left-turns when I'm on my bicycle, but that doesn't mean I can't celebrate their own special brand of femininity.

Or she's somebody's mom, or several somebody's mom. She will not just buy the Leopard print cardigan at Target, she will also buy the navy blue and black one because they are on sale for cheap, and this will be probably the only time she buys clothes for herself for months, and she's practical, if a little bored with it all. The leopard print cardigan will be almost an after thought after aisles in search of appropriate underwear for a 9-year-old girl, t-shirts that her middle-schooler will actually deem cool enough to wear, and flea treatment for the dog. The leopard print will catch her eye, a small beacon of subtle "wild child" in a sea of modesty and clothes for "the professional woman". (She is always secretly relieved she wears a uniform after seeing those). She will stuff it under the buzz-lightyear replacement sheets and the Halloween decorations, all while scowling and scoffing at the "50 Shades of Grey" paperbacks prominently displayed at the end of the book aisle, thinking "how lame and pedestrian"... because despite the outward aura of subdued and a little too tired, she knows kinky, she knows good sex and erotica, she has a leopard print cardigan that, bonus, she will wear with cowboy boots. She will ignore the side-eye from the 22-year-old checkout girl with the collarbone tat and pink streaks when she rings it up.

She'll be so impressed with herself for such a small act of domesticated subversion that she'll snap off the tag in the parking lot, and slide it over her very plain black tank top, and drive home in it. She may look in the mirror and note yes, how definitely cool it is, paired with her knock-off $10 aviator shades, all the more so with the booster seats also reflecting in that same mirror. The smell of somebody's day-old soccer socks threatens to offend her nostrils, but gives her a sense of peace, of place. She will pull up to the house, 4 sets of soccer cleats on the muddy porch, haphazard fort made out of pruned branches a created obstacle, and forget she is wearing it when she strides in the house.

This will be short lived, as she will be met with a tinny, loud, "WHAT is that you're wearing?" by her 7-year-old, shortly followed up with a "I love your Halloween costume, Mom!" by her 10-year-old. Her well-intentioned but filterless husband will poke his head around the corner and laugh... "you look like some 'Real Housewives' of New Jersey extra!" A small finger gesture from her will elicit a quick placation. "But I, uh, love it! Go leopard print! Yeah baby!" This over-enthusiasm will give her pause about two things: a) that he noticed actual clothing, and more surprisingly, b) that he knows what "Real Housewives of New Jersey" is.

None of this will matter, because she knows rock and roll is sometimes what you make of it. The leopard print cardigan has come home.