About a month ago my mother came to visit me. She lives in a relatively small town, so her trips to the city consist of us doing a lot of shopping. Recently, her favorite foundation had run out so we happily made our way down to the expensive department store for a new jar. Due to the birth of my daughter and the lifestyle of a mom with two kids, I had not been using my foundation so I had not actually been to the store in over nine months. Little did I know that they had completely renovated and upgraded the store to a kind of super-luxury status. The new glass walls, fancy escalator and modernized décor screamed of the big dollars and high price tags. The staff was superbly quaffed, the floor highly polished, the furniture extremely expensive, even the mannequins appeared posh.
I, of course, had just rushed out the door, leaving the kids with Dad so I could spend a few hours shopping. My hair was on day four without a shower, my jeans had a stain on the thigh, my cotton cargo coat looked rumpled from fishing it out of the back of the car, and not to mention one of the pockets was being held together with a large safety pin after my son torn it while playing tag. I had no make up on, and the post pregnancy hormones were having one of those days with my face. Hurrying to make it out the door before one of the kids had a fit, made me think little of what my appearance was and more about making the escape.
Yet in that huge arena where every cosmetic and fragrance fashionista stands donned perfectly in their made up faces, fashion forward outfits and slightly thinner than thin bodies, I saw my reflection in the eight thousand mirrors they installed. What I saw, I truly didn’t like. By the time I reached the counter of my favorite make-up, I was cringing and wishing I could just turn back. Yet, the sales clerk I always chat with was there, greeting me louder than I expected, as if drawing attention to the pitiful mess I had become. The once over was all I needed to hammer home the sight I must have made, scuffed shoes, broken nails, no earrings, no make-up and of course, still carrying my summer purse.
It was all I needed to remind me that although I am a full time mom and I work from home, I didn’t have to look this way. Immediately, I made a pact with myself. My daughter is almost eleven months, and the mommy-frump, daze is over. No longer am I breastfeeding (one of my favorite excuses for loose and comfy clothes). No longer am I recovering or as sleep deprived as I once was. This not caring about how I look, had to change.
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