I am not a dresser-upper. I mean, I do Thai Yoga bodywork, for which my wardrobe consists of layered tanks and tees with yoga pants. I knock around town and have legs whiter than a Cullen, so I wear jeans. And, and, I’m a blogger, which everyone knows all bloggers wear pajamas all day. So I’m kind of doomed.
When I started my occasional runnings with HAM and TPO, I began to feel a little lot under-dressed, but, you know, body image issues and dear LORD, I do NOT want to go clothes shopping. I’d really rather drink lava while sitting in a bathtub full of rattlesnakes, thanks. I can do cute when I need to, but daily? Meh. Add to that that I’m a Mary Kay consultant and, well, I’m a giant big ball of dressy/slouchy, occasionally made-up but usually not conundrum.
Not that any of this is anything new. My mother used to tell me I had two modes of dress: Goodwill and Kay Free (the latter being a reference to an always perfectly coiffed, typically rhinestoned, on top of the trends and proud of it, great friend of hers). I was that awkward kid growing up who had a perm from 4th grade on (I grew up in the 80s, back off), who insisted on wearing my mother’s way-too-big clothes to school in middle school with the pants literally safety-pinned to my bra because I thought that was just AWESOME. Are you ready for a taste of extreme awesomeness? Do you think you can handle it? Behold, my third, fifth, and seventh grade school pictures.
I have put them out there, therefore they cannot be held against me by any of you because I just beat you to the punch. Neener.
This morning, I was dutifully getting Earl ready for Second Grade Awards Day. We were standing in my bathroom as I was flat-ironing her typically unruly hair. She was admiring her sparkly dress in the mirror when she glanced at me. In my haste to get her up, I’d thrown on yesterday’s jeans, skipped the bra, and hadn’t brushed my hair or my teeth. “Mom,” she started, her eyes still slid sideways toward me, “Parents need to dress up today, too, you know.”
Well, I had planned on gussying up a little more than usual. “Oh? I can’t wear jeans?”
“No, you can wear jeans,” she quickly tossed out. “You just need to wear a cool shirt.”
I begin mentally flipping through my ‘cool shirt’ wardrobe – a quick flip since I have maybe two. “Like which shirt?”
“Like your Cornbread Ted shirt. That shirt is VERY cool.”
I do love this shirt.
Now that request, my darling, sweet, loving, brilliant child, I can handle. For that, I will even put on make-up.
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