I got home last night and I ate dinner.
Which was actually rosemary flavored wheat crackers and cheese and those miniature cucumbers.
I coughed a lot, often.
I then had a mad desire to scrub the tub. So I did. Halfway through my arm got tired and so one side of the tub is much cleaner than the other side.
I rinsed out the sponge and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Took in the stain on my plain, purple, target T shirt, and realized that even though I had intended to, I had forgotten to put makeup on my face that morning before work.
After cleaning the tub I was exhausted and retreated back to my bedroom.
The room I claim to be my sanctuary and yet I can’t keep it spotless for more than two consecutive days unless I happen to be on vacation out of state.
There’s a woman that I imagine I am, in an ideal world.
Polished and put together and ready for anything at a moment’s notice.
But the truth is that I am none of these things.
I think I keep waiting for certain life milestones to magically turn me into some sort of glamorous career woman with an expensive haircut.
But I’m not.
Nothing you’d re-pin onto your Pinterst board.
Just me. Just outspoken and paranoid and nosy in a black v neck and the same pair of jeans you’ve seen me rotate into and out of all year. Usually with sneakers. Hair down or hair up, not a fishtail braid in sight. Chapstick in my pockets and Dunkin Donuts trash on the floor of my car.
I do remember one of the times I was in Chicago. I watched a girl who was staying at the apartment with her boyfriend get ready for their date night.
The whole thing took her 2 hours and 45 minutes from start to finish. She was a beautiful girl and didn’t need a stitch of the makeup she so painstakingly applied. She changed her outfit about six times, and did something amazing to her hair. She emerged from hogging the bathroom a different person. Perfectly scented and packaged, ready to go. Her boyfriend looked like a deer in the headlights when she asked him which scarf she should wear. I thought to myself for one small moment, that even in the presence of this leggy glamazon I was happy to be me anyway.
To be the girl raised by a mother whose uniform consisted of oversized Red Sox T-Shirts. Who eats sloppy half assed cracker dinners and sometimes has greasy hair at the end of the day. Who doesn’t always feel beautiful but has the knowledge of her own beauty anyway, Who can make the person interviewing her laugh. Who can sing a song into a crying baby’s ear and have them quiet down to listen. Who counts her friends as sacred. Who likes to drive a little fast. Who treasures her confidence as her best accessory on the first, third, and umpteenth date. Who never remembers to floss her teeth even though she knows she should.
To just be me and not the woman of my dreams. Yet.