Yesterday, when I was shopping at TJ Maxx (I don’t work there anymore because I’m lame—literally and figuratively), I saw a lady about my age. She was wearing a nice pair of khaki shorts, a boho chic blouse, and some kicky wedge heel sandals. She was properly accessorized and carried a fashionable purse. Her hair and makeup were done. I wanted to be her.

While gazing at her in admiration (read: hate-filled envy), I realized the gym shorts I was wearing had a hole in the leg. I knew this because I had found the hole when I was wearing the shorts the day before. I noticed my Aruba t-shirt, also on its second day of wearing, had a stain. My tennis shoes were covered in mud from walking the dog around the neighborhood. My hair was in a ponytail; the only thing on my face was sweat. Why did she look like a cool, hip chick about town while I looked like I had been living with a pack of wolves for a week?

Here’s the thing… Even if I put on the exact same outfit as the lady I saw, and donned full hair and makeup, I would still look like I had been shot out of a cannon to get to TJ Maxx. Unlike other people, for whom the phrase “not a hair out of place” was invented, my finished product has always been a little bit off. Be it a hair—or all my hairs—out of place, unmatching socks, too short pants or sleeves (a curse of all tall women—especially those of us too cheap to pay the extra $2 for tall size clothing), outdated shoes, or an unpolished face (such a nice euphemism for bad makeup), I have never been able to successfully pull together a cohesive look. Instead, I share the David Sedaris disease of being able to dress in a $400 sweater and still look like a hobo.  Side note:  I believe this is from When You Are Engulfed In Flames but couldn’t confirm on Google.

As I type this, I am wearing the coolest–heat gear, not fashionable–athletic wear I own because it is about five thousand degrees today and Ralphie Nugget had a big hike in the blazing sun this morning with his humans. Or so goes my excuse. The shirt has two different types of food stains; the bottom has a twisted waist band that makes one leg longer than the other. I am wearing the same mud covered shoes I had on at TJ Maxx. I have snotties and a sweat rag in my pockets, with some lip balm, of course.

I guess I should just be grateful this isn’t the second day I’m wearing the same clothes, but I always thought by this point in my life I’d have it a little more together, especially since I no longer have any reason not to make myself at least slightly presentable before leaving the house. When I was young I got to use the ‘’I’m too poor” excuse, which everyone knows means I would rather spend my hard earned dollars on beer instead of fashion. Then I fell into the “I’m too busy” excuse because I was working long hours and did not care to spend my rare downtime putting on fancy pants and bronzer, which everyone knows means I would rather spend it drinking beer. Now I’ve got all the time in the world and have learned that it doesn’t matter how much money I spend, I still end up looking like a flood victim.

So what’s a middle-aged (and then some), slightly-overweight, mother of a soon-to-be two-year-old fur baby to do? Well, today at Walmart I bought myself a new swimsuit for my upcoming trip to Niagara Falls. Hopefully, I will wear it in the hotel pool and not while being pushed over the Falls by my total bad ass husband (PTST). It was on the clearance rack. And I took Peyton Manning’s paraphrased advice and bought some bigger belts, since when I cleaned out the closet last week I found I no longer owned a belt that was big enough to fit around my ever-expanding gut.

We will see if either of these items ever see the light of day, especially since I’m guessing a belt will look funny being worn with my holey gym shorts…


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