I drove to Assachusetts yesterday so I could spend Saturday night with my dear friend Sandy. Because she is so wonderful and because she understands I don't get out much these days, she met me at the door with a pitcher of diet ginger ale and Early Times whiskey.
I love her (remember how she visited at the height of the flea infestation? Now that's a friend).
After tailgating at her place, we walked around Northampton and tried in vain to find a bar where we could sit. We finally settled on a pub where one of us could sit.
As soon as my ass hit the stool, I got lost people watching. In Mulletville Lite, my people watching is limited to a) Chuck and the kids, b) my parents, c) the neighbors, and d) the moms who drop off their kids at the nursery school (i.e., a blur of yoga pants). No one has tri-colored hair. No one wears red lipstick. No one dresses up.
The room was full of eye candy. Pure eye candy.
Dressed in my black sweater, jeans and black boots I felt hopelessly generic in comparison. Not in a bad way. More in a I'm-36-and-live-in-Connecticut-so-I-have-no-pep-or-originality kind of way.
Ok, ok. I guess I can't blame it all on Connecticut. Having two children has made dressing a completely utilitarian effort. Putting on a shirt correctly is good, never mind if it's funky and/or flattering.
Then there's Chuck. He bought me a Vera Bradley handbag for Christmas last year and, in the midst of a homogeneous hiccup, I started using it.
So there I was at the bar. Drunk on whiskey and pretty lights and somewhat pretty people, I contemplated a drastic makeover for myself. Bangs. Lipstick. Textured tights. A ferret hat. Something different. Something that would set me apart from the yuppy Mulletville Lite crowd.
If only I hadn't stopped at that store on the way home from Assachusetts today and bought these:
Clogs. Fucking clogs. Sucked in by their comfort and functionality, I didn't have a chance.
And, honestly, I kind of knew this day was coming. I just didn't think it would follow such quick suit after "I'm gonna zip and zest my hump, my hump, my hump. My lovely lady lumps (lumps)." There are worse travesties, I understand, but for a few drunken hours I really did think I'd return home and infuse my life with unique and dazzling glamor.
(Myah, that last line just made me burst out laughing.)
What about you? Do you feel like you pay hommage to your inner diva or are you subsisting on comfy schlepwear?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.