This morning, I stepped outside in the cold, pre-dawn hours. I picked up the newspaper while Millie the wonder dog was doing her business. Suddenly, I looked down at my feet and I laughed. Look what I’ve become.
When I was a little girl, like many little girls, I was often mortified by my mother. If she wasn’t embarrassing me by something she said, she was embarrassing me by something she wore. Very rarely, she’d dress up and I’d give a silent approval. (Emphasis on silent - I couldn’t be bothered to actually say something nice to my mom.)
Back then, when I was young and full of blue sky ambitions and empty promises, I vowed that I’d never dress like my mother. I’d never be caught dead in sweatpants or sweat socks or old worn-out shirts. I’d wear makeup and style my hair and always look terrific.
Fast forward to today, when life has done its best to wear me in, like a comfortable pair of shoes, and my body is in the throes of middle-age spread. I no longer feel the need to prove myself to anyone. After 25 years of marriage, I’m feeling that detached sense of devil-may-care about my appearance. I’m pretty sure my hubby is sticking around, so do I really need to blow dry and curl when I’m just sitting on the couch tonight? You wouldn't believe some of the things I've worn to the grocery store.
So, this morning, when I looked down, here’s what I saw: my two feet in slippers and sweat socks. I have to say, it looked bad, really bad. Oh, how far I have fallen.
Through the years, SO many things about motherhood have surprised me. I can’t believe how exhausting it is. I can’t believe how few answers I have for the constant parade of daily challenges. I can’t believe how the smallest things – a hand-drawn illustration, a hug, or a sweet comment – can bring me to tears. And I can’t believe that I’ve stopped caring how I look.
I guess I’m at a crossroads. On the one hand, I no longer bear the weight of low self-esteem or lack of confidence based on my appearance. I’m comfortable in my own skin and am accepting of the fact that I’m not going to wake up and look like Demi Moore or Jennifer Aniston.
On the other hand, my sweat socks and slippers on this cold winter morning were a bit of a wake-up call. I do have the ability to at least try to look like I care and take a little bit of pride in my appearance. And, on these frigid days, it might actually improve my outlook on life.
Who knows, maybe it’s one less thing about me to mortify my own daughter.
