I’m not even going to tell you what I’m wearing right now. It would make my mama cry. It would make my amazingly stylish grandmother rise from her eternal slumber and chase me with an iron and a tube of Revlon Moon Drops Hot Coral lipstick. There is no reason for me to not to look nice during the day. NO. REASON. Other people have to look at me. If that weren’t the case, God only knows what the state of my jeans and manicure would be. As it is, they are 1. holy–and not in the Jesus Loves You way– and 2. nonexistent. But no one should have to look at me in the state I’m in right now. I’ll give you a hint how bad it is. Two words: Elastic. Waist.
The problem is that in my mind, I look NOTHING like what I really look like. In my mind, I do not look like the bloated remains of the woman who used to be Susan before she ate a fourth-grader. And got dressed in the dark. I’m not saying that I think I look like Cindy Crawford, but really look like Zombie Phyllis Diller. I’m saying in my mind I look like Katherine Hepburn, but really look like Zombie Katherine Hepburn. In elastic waist sweatpants.
My husband, God love him, thinks I’m hawt. And he’s real earnest, y’all, so if I say something like, “My face looks like I’m bent over even though I’m standing up straight. What’s with the extra skin?” He’ll say something like, “Shut yer yap, you compliment-trolling harpy!” No, really, he’ll find something acceptable about me.
ME: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I look like I was born in a barn and the horse stepped on me.
HIM: Are you gonna do that thing?
ME: What thing?
HIM: The thing you do where you list every flaw you THINK you have? The thing where you analyze each physical characteristic down to the sub-atomic level?
ME: Yeah. Probably.
HIM: Okay. I’m gonna go watch something with swords, then.
Don’t feel too sorry for the guy. I do not ever play the Does My Butt Look Big In This? game with him. I believe if you’re asking that question, you know the answer, girl. You know the answer. Getting a second opinion is one thing, expecting your spouse to be the flying buttress to the cracked Gothic arch of your self esteem is quite another.
Today, I present what I WANT to look like. What I occasionally THINK I look like. And then what the sad, sad reality is. Also, some of you may find something in the reality section that you like and you’re gonna want to get all that top is CUTE! Who do you think you are?! Bite me.