Five days a week, 187 days a year I dress and leave the house. Semi put together, with make-up and jewelry anyway, ready to face adolescents. I think I'm known for my unique style, one that I suppose has evolved over almost 57 years. I give my morning routine no more thought than just another way to prepare for the day.
I go native in the summer. Shorts, tee, flops. Toilette consists of showering and washing my hair. Period.
Except.
After being au natural for several days I feel the urge, nay, the compulsion to be me again. I actually don real clothes, makeup, and jewelry. And perfume.
The natural look is great most days. The hummingbirds, Harper Lee, and hydrangeas don't seem to notice that I have on the same pair of khaki shorts I've worn three times this week. They all eat and drink what I offer whether I'm wearing eighty-three bracelets or not.
Right now I'm nursing the infirm and the Tabgaze doesn't register whether I'm all gussied up or wearing burlap. The lunch I pack for JT still tastes like a turkey, mustard, and cheese sandwich whether I've rosied my cheekbones with blush or not. Facebook friends don't know when I'm sitting at the computer with a WE tshirt from 1997.
But I don't do it for other people. I do it for me.
Why? Because I feel more like myself with eyeliner, subtle though it is. (Ink by Bare Escentuals in case you were wondering.) And after awhile I need to be reminded that I'm grown now, and grownups are expected to do certain things.
Like get dressed.
I hear it takes 28 days to break a habit. I took makeup with me and didn't wear it at all. Go figure.
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