My Birthday Resolution

This weekend marked the anniversary of the dawning of my life and with this, the realization that I look really really old. Not like I look my age, but that rigorous abuse and hours of bottom-clenching driving in traffic have left me looking and feeling like something out of that Benjamin Button movie. So, being gifted with family and friends who sent me monetary expressions of affection, I have begun my quest to at least regain some of the minimal hygiene habits that have been lost in the mayhem of motherhood.

My college roommates used to tease me mercilessly, because I would not be seen by anybody (especially not members of the opposite sex) without my face fully adorned with cosmetics. There were an alarming number of times when I had already showered, curled my hair in spongy pink rollers, and removed my war paint in anticipation of a going to bed. Only to have an unexpected late night visitor, and I would remove the curlers and reapply the war paint to conduct my business with unannounced company. Then reremove and recurl upon my company's departure. I admit that this is a little bit extreme, but when did I go from make-up and shower twice a night to barely being able to find time for either activity twice a WEEK? I see magazine ads about the “five-minute face” and tee hee to myself, because I have barely had five minutes to empty my bladder.

I once went to school wearing one brown sandal and one brown loafer. I was trying to accessorize my outfit and while having a visual comparison, I forgot to match the winning choice before rushing out the door. This conundrum seems ridiculous when presented this week with the fact that I have one shoe of seven different pairs. Being of diminished stature, my feet structurally match my height. My daughter minion is eight-years-old, and much to her delight, she can now wear the same size of shoes that I do. This has meant that I have NO shoes. I went to play soccer in my three-inch wedges yesterday, because BOTH pairs of tennis shoes have disappeared into the pink swamp that is her bedroom floor. Matching shoes to an outfit? I feel accomplished if I match shoes to each other.

As I prepared for our weekly worship service on Sunday, the day after my new resolution to revisit the glamor of my youth, I decided to invest time in actually coordinating an outfit. My usual physical preparation for church takes me about fifteen minutes, and that includes, shower, dressing, make-up, and gathering supplies for minions. During my closet excavations for fashionable clothing, I came to the conclusion that being fashionable is time consuming and I value sleep over beauty. I tried on outfit combinations and debated the cut of shirts and how they compliment my rapidly expanding waistline. Usually, I figure if I have the strategic parts covered, I am doing great!

With my newfound birthday wealth, I invested in two new blouses, two new belts, and a new skirt. It used to be that I would MATCH my outfits, meaning that my blouse, pants, socks, jewelry, etc. was in the same or a complimentary color family. I had numerous pairs of earrings for the perfect match of sporty vs. elegant, silver vs. gold. As the money burned a hole in my pocket and I browsed through the thick forest of clothing racks in my local department store, I came to a realization. I mentioned in a previous post that the motto is our house was “If it covers, it is capitol.” I am just a short trip from wearing a batman cape and a Walmart bag. My SUPERMOM pajamas, that are supposed to be my daily pep talk, end up being worn to the grocery store with whatever shirt (usually my husband's) doesn't smell when I lift it from the laundry basket and take a whiff. I bought my two blouses, put on a pair of jeans and immediately lost 15 lbs. It was the easiest and best weight loss plan ever!

I had a friend complain that she only ever does her hair in a ponytail anymore, it is all she has time for. I found myself secretly envious, because I often cannot even find the time to run a brush through my tangled tresses. The truth actually is that I usually cannot find my hairbrush at all, it has been used to beautify Barbie and been sucked into the same abyss that apparently ate the other half of every pair of my shoes. I look at the beautiful women in my area, the ones that don't look like they are pushing a million years old. They go to the beauty shop and have their hair styled and colored. Are you kidding me? I haven't been to a Dollarcuts in 12 years! Since my mop of dark auburn hair is lapping at my waistline, perhaps it is about time that I at least reined in the chaos with an elastic and a comb on a daily basis.

I am going to get on a sensitive subject for a second, so those who are faint of heart should skip this paragraph. I also purchased, as a gift to myself, some foundational garments. I don't know when it happened, but suddenly not only did I wear “Granny Panties” (bras actually), but I don't remember when safety pins and duct tape began becoming part of my lingerie fashion statement. I guess when “the girls” became functional, I stopped worrying about fashionable. The funniest part of the whole operation was buying an athletic top to wear to the gym. I wasn't even in the “intimate” section of my local buy-everything-here-store, and my eldest minion was blushing. Makes me want to take an extra trip to Victoria's Secret just for spite.

I am going to skip the subjects of jewelry, coordinated hair accessories, or lotions and perfumes, as fully recovering from my slothful binger is going to be a multi-step process and these two seem like the icing on the cake. But, if you don't see me on the streets around my home....GREAT! I have achieved my goal of sluffing off the air of defeat and dementia and putting on a convincing facade of hygienic normalcy.