All dressed up and somewhere to go
We're going out tonight. We've got plans. And no children (thanks mum and dad).
As it's OH's big birthday coming up, the exact terms of engagement remain a mystery, which has caused some dilemmas on the "what to wear" front, so I have two options from which to choose. Casual chic, or deconstructed elegance. If they don't hit the mark, there's the reserve option too - whatever I can get into.
I know how it's going to work out, there's a pattern. I start well, plenty of time to get into the shower and enjoy the luxurious rainfall experience without a small person (one of mine obviously, anyone else's would just be weird) sitting on the loo (please God with the lid down), giving me a running commentary about something of great importance interspersed with observations about my boobs. Or sharing the shower. By which I mean standing under the full force of the water like an outtake from a Herbal Essences ad, while I try and wash myself under any droplets that spray off said child. I'll get to exfoliate and moisturise and keep that deep-conditioning treatment on for the full time, and wash it out properly before I have to leave the warm climes of our bathroom and begin the next step.
Into the bedroom, and there are the outfits I've selected, hanging like one-dimensional mannequins on whichever hanger I managed to remove from the box during hanger Jenga. Sorry for the repetition - there aren't any hanger synonyms. I'll likely give them an approving nod, then sit and admire my shoes for a bit and probably mourn the fact that I only have one pair of feet - so many shoes, so few occasions to wear them).
Lotions and potions next. Deodorant, moisturiser for my face, moisturiser for my body, and moisturiser for my feet. Eye-balm, lip-balm, hair-balm. And then moisturiser for my hands. Spritz some perfume in the air and walk through it and it's time to transform mummy into mamma mia!
It's strange - when I was a corporate chick, I looked the part every day. It was like armour: dresses and sky-scraper heels, coordinated handbags - I got such pleasure from selecting what I would wear, but it was like I adopted my work persona. There were days when I would dress down - sometimes I even wore flats - because I find what I wear influences my style of writing, or how I channel my creativity. Now I work from home I wear pjs most of the time, or lounge wear as it's marketed by my friend Ted. And where my clothes were my armour, my makeup was my mask. Ironic, because I never wear much - eyeliner flick, mascara, a touch of lip gloss and I'm ready to roll (providing my eyebrows are behaving).
I'm prepared for my party frock.
When I put an outfit together, I put an outfit together. I'll get it all ready, from the top to my bottom. That way I know my undies either match, or are disruptive intentionally (all black dress, flash of magenta). So when the dressing room becomes dressing ruin, it's not just my wardrobe that suffers. Drawers too. And jewellery, handbags and the shoe collection.
You see, inevitably, the outfits I've so carefully crafted aren't right, probably because they're too tight, my tummy is too big, my arms look like hams and the neckline does nothing for my chins. My husband will tell me I look great (foxy in a bin bag), but Little Miss Dysmorphia can't see it.
I'll have a strop, pull everything out of my wardrobe in a fit of pique and fling it across the bedroom, which feels good at the time but is an arse ache to tidy away before staring out the window, racking my mind for a valid excuse to forget the whole idea - all I really want to do is put my pjs back on, and write the whole idea off as an experience, with the added bonus I've got clean and shiny hair.
Ju will continue to talk my down off my proverbial ledge, risking life and limb to suggest reconsidering that skirt or trying that dress even though I know it's going to make me look like a sausage roll - and the last one in Greggs at that.
There'll probably be an interval in this angst, when he makes me a cup of tea, and sits with me while I'm drinking it and gives me a gentle pep talk. Then I'll have another go, sifting through my floor-drobe for something, anything that will do the fuck up, and eventually, I'll find something that makes me feel a little better. Hopefully it's not too far from the original selection, so I won't have to change my pants from black to white or red to blue, and the jewellery short-list (always rings and earrings, a bangle or bracelet, but never necklaces) doesn't have to be drawn up again.
Finally, I can slip on my shoes - one of (ahem) hundred pairs I own: my mantra is, if the shoe fits, buy it in every colour. Without exception, in the time it takes me to grow four inches, I'm feeling better. I'm ready to face the world.
Cinderella is proof that a pair of shoes can change your life.
As it's OH's big birthday coming up, the exact terms of engagement remain a mystery, which has caused some dilemmas on the "what to wear" front, so I have two options from which to choose. Casual chic, or deconstructed elegance. If they don't hit the mark, there's the reserve option too - whatever I can get into.
I know how it's going to work out, there's a pattern. I start well, plenty of time to get into the shower and enjoy the luxurious rainfall experience without a small person (one of mine obviously, anyone else's would just be weird) sitting on the loo (please God with the lid down), giving me a running commentary about something of great importance interspersed with observations about my boobs. Or sharing the shower. By which I mean standing under the full force of the water like an outtake from a Herbal Essences ad, while I try and wash myself under any droplets that spray off said child. I'll get to exfoliate and moisturise and keep that deep-conditioning treatment on for the full time, and wash it out properly before I have to leave the warm climes of our bathroom and begin the next step.
Into the bedroom, and there are the outfits I've selected, hanging like one-dimensional mannequins on whichever hanger I managed to remove from the box during hanger Jenga. Sorry for the repetition - there aren't any hanger synonyms. I'll likely give them an approving nod, then sit and admire my shoes for a bit and probably mourn the fact that I only have one pair of feet - so many shoes, so few occasions to wear them).
Lotions and potions next. Deodorant, moisturiser for my face, moisturiser for my body, and moisturiser for my feet. Eye-balm, lip-balm, hair-balm. And then moisturiser for my hands. Spritz some perfume in the air and walk through it and it's time to transform mummy into mamma mia!
It's strange - when I was a corporate chick, I looked the part every day. It was like armour: dresses and sky-scraper heels, coordinated handbags - I got such pleasure from selecting what I would wear, but it was like I adopted my work persona. There were days when I would dress down - sometimes I even wore flats - because I find what I wear influences my style of writing, or how I channel my creativity. Now I work from home I wear pjs most of the time, or lounge wear as it's marketed by my friend Ted. And where my clothes were my armour, my makeup was my mask. Ironic, because I never wear much - eyeliner flick, mascara, a touch of lip gloss and I'm ready to roll (providing my eyebrows are behaving).
I'm prepared for my party frock.
When I put an outfit together, I put an outfit together. I'll get it all ready, from the top to my bottom. That way I know my undies either match, or are disruptive intentionally (all black dress, flash of magenta). So when the dressing room becomes dressing ruin, it's not just my wardrobe that suffers. Drawers too. And jewellery, handbags and the shoe collection.
You see, inevitably, the outfits I've so carefully crafted aren't right, probably because they're too tight, my tummy is too big, my arms look like hams and the neckline does nothing for my chins. My husband will tell me I look great (foxy in a bin bag), but Little Miss Dysmorphia can't see it.
I'll have a strop, pull everything out of my wardrobe in a fit of pique and fling it across the bedroom, which feels good at the time but is an arse ache to tidy away before staring out the window, racking my mind for a valid excuse to forget the whole idea - all I really want to do is put my pjs back on, and write the whole idea off as an experience, with the added bonus I've got clean and shiny hair.
Ju will continue to talk my down off my proverbial ledge, risking life and limb to suggest reconsidering that skirt or trying that dress even though I know it's going to make me look like a sausage roll - and the last one in Greggs at that.
There'll probably be an interval in this angst, when he makes me a cup of tea, and sits with me while I'm drinking it and gives me a gentle pep talk. Then I'll have another go, sifting through my floor-drobe for something, anything that will do the fuck up, and eventually, I'll find something that makes me feel a little better. Hopefully it's not too far from the original selection, so I won't have to change my pants from black to white or red to blue, and the jewellery short-list (always rings and earrings, a bangle or bracelet, but never necklaces) doesn't have to be drawn up again.
Finally, I can slip on my shoes - one of (ahem) hundred pairs I own: my mantra is, if the shoe fits, buy it in every colour. Without exception, in the time it takes me to grow four inches, I'm feeling better. I'm ready to face the world.
Cinderella is proof that a pair of shoes can change your life.
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Thanks for ranting!