My husband and I rescued ourselves from Los Angeles six years ago and moved here to raise our kids “on earth, not cement”. That’s fancy talk for letting our children run around naked and filthy most of the time. I am also a television writer, although we have no television. I love everything about my life except one, somewhat insurmountable problem I have:
Okay, that’s not me in the picture, so I suppose things could be worse. At least I don’t smoke or hold bottles of cheap liquor between my legs. But I dress just as sloppy. My wardrobe consists of jeans, stained t-shirts and mismatched socks. I wear pajamas to the grocery store pretending they are plaid pants. My purse is large enough to be considered carry-on luggage and when I’m out of clean underwear, I put on a bathing suit bottom. Now this might be a fine way of dressing for a meth addict. After all, I’m sure they have more important things to worry about than whether it’s the right time of year to wear crocodile. But for me, a happily married mother of 3, it’s just wrong.
How did this happen? Here’s where I point fingers.
Having children not only made my belly button large enough to hold a Matchbox car, but it tore my wardrobe asunder. After years of being boogered on and hugged with jelly-hands, I stopped wearing clothes I cared about and opted for clothes that could sport all manner of bodily fluids without me even raising an eyebrow. I was kind of fashionable before I had kids. I swear, look –
And now look at me.
One hot pregnant mess in my husband’s t-shirt and petting our dog in an e-collar (for that nice trailer park touch.) For years I told myself my appearance was fine and I simply ignored mirrors like some cheerio-covered vampire. After all, I’m not going anywhere. But then I realized, I’M GOING EVERYWHERE! This is how I am presenting myself to the world and it has to change. So, I decided to write this blog so that YOU can help me discover my look.
I know as much about fashion as Gandhi, which I believe is why he just wore that one loin cloth everyday. He wasn’t making a statement, he just had no idea what his style was and like most of us, just ended up grabbing the same ‘ol thing day after day.
By the end of 2013 I will have my style and probably the hatred and resentment of my family. And why? I’m not solving the problem of Global Warming. I’m shopping. I’m matching shoes and purses. Not since I spent my eighth grade year dreaming of becoming Huey Lewis’ wife have I wasted so much brainpower. But if I can feel good about myself again it just might be worth it. And, by the way, Huey and I would have made an amazing couple. I mean, look at us. That’s the power of love…