There was a time in my life that whenever I stepped out of the door, I was looking good. Hair done. Cute clothes. A touch of gloss on the lips. A light dusting of eyeshadow to make my eyes look bright and innocent. Heels on. In my mind there was an imaginary fan blowing my hair and clothes alluringly as I took every step. I was always on fleek as the youngsters say.
Did I really just write on fleek? I actually had a conversation, just this morning, about that phrase with my sister (whom is younger than me). She had absolutely no idea what on fleek meant and I felt so young and cool that I knew it and she didn’t. However, actually writing it down just makes me feel old and tired. Bleh.
Anyway, the point I was making was that I used to care about my appearance. Now, I honestly couldn’t care less. I didn’t realize how little I cared until today actually. I needed to run to the grocery store so I bundled my child up and literally put on a sweat shirt and baggy yoga pants that I found on the floor. I was satisfied that the shirt nor pants didn’t have baby food on it. That was my gauge of appropriateness. I also didn’t feel like doing my hair for such a quick trip so I grabbed an old slouchy hat and threw that on top of my dry and pitiful nest. I mean, why waste a good hair style on eggs, cereal, and a bag of Raisinets? At this point, my child is getting antsy so while I’m searching for socks, he decides it’s time to pull the pots out of the cabinets. So I just forget the socks and stuff my un-pedicured feet into some sneakers.
You know what made me realize how little I cared about how I looked? When I got home and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Drab with a little bit of dowdy and a sprinkle of wrinkle on top. And all I did was shrug. That was the extent of my caring.
The old me is cringing at the memory of how I looked today. The me of today is totally different. Shouldn’t I get points for brushing my teeth this morning? At least I think I did…
Meh. Shrug again. Whatever.
What has happened to me? I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a mom now and the idea of balancing on stilettos while trying to run after a child is enough to make my arches cry out in despair. Or if it’s because I’m a little older now and other things are more important. I won’t say how old I am but let’s just say that 90’s music is my motherfreaking jam.
I will say that when hubby is home, I won’t go out like that. I do try to put in the effort for him. And it is effort. Herculean effort sometimes. But I do it anyway. Sometimes. When I feel like it. On weekends. On date night. Maybe just on Sundays. Whatever.
I wish I could wrap this post up all nice and pretty by saying that from now on, I will care and never leave out of the house again without looking like Jessica Rabbit. But that would be a lie. And with it being this close to Christmas, I can’t have lies getting back to Santa.
Dammit I will be on the nice list this year!