It’s fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God’s Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.
For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- “counting” has never been one of my strongest suits) I’ve chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here’s what the past week has shown me.
I’m clearly bats**t crazy.
My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have…if I weren’t eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.
Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It’s a vicious cycle.
But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it’s a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don’t have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in ’92.
I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.
It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.
My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I’m pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase “The thing is…” over and over again. Word count ain’t everything, folks.)
P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day’s Look, but he’s also been known to insist that I don’t need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.
As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the “putting it on” in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy’s clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)
So I’m back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin’.
And yes, I’m aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.
They’re made by Scunci, whose tagline “Effortless Beauty” is something I can really get behind.
Especially since that’s exactly the amount of work I’m willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.
They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline’s tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!
(Yesterday.)
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| Effortless Beauty. (Hey, At Least She Showered!) (Yesterday.) |
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