Note: This was originally published in 2009. Thought it would be fun to share again.
After watching an especially enlightening episode of What Not to Wear one day, I discovered that I have lost my identity. I am a frumpy mommy and yes, I have worn my workout clothes grocery shopping. Even worse, my favorite word when describing clothing is comfy.
It’s not that I have given up completely. On my bathroom counter I have a tiny tub of cream called Hope in a Jar. My shower holds a Five Minute Miracle for my hair. In my cupboard you’d find firming lotion I had hoped would work better than the stair climber at the gym. It didn’t. Neither did the self-tanning lotion that promised to have a slimming effect. It in fact had a streaking effect and an odd smell. You can see that in my own little way, I still try.
The funny thing is that I don’t mind so much. I am pleased to have lost the part of my identity that found value in how I was dressed or what I looked like. I am thankful that I don’t have an hour every morning to spend on my face. More shockingly, I like being known as Coco’s mom or Soleil’s mommy.
Even so, I long sometimes for the days when I dressed up every day for work and lived in high heels. Eric would smile when I walked in the door and could hardly resist wrapping his arms around me any time we were near each other.
Not that those days are completely gone. Just yesterday as I passed Eric the trash to take out, our hands touched. “Wow,” he said, “it’s nice to see you…dressed.” Ah, the romance of it all.
While I may have once pitied women like me, I now appreciate them because I understand that this mommy look is carefully constructed. Gym shoes aren’t a sign of laziness, they are a necessity. Who can chase after a two year old in the park while wearing stilettos? And though baby doll dresses may be back in fashion, I for one am too afraid of being asked when the baby is due to even try one on. As for low rise jeans, I see no reason to have my backside exposed when I am bending over picking up toys all day. I don’t think the kids would thank me, either.
When I get to feeling sorry for my frumpy self, I remember that this comfort-look is only for a season. Like the months when I wore tops of whatever color food my baby was trying that day, these days will soon be but a memory.
Until then, I still have Hope. It’s in a pretty little jar.