I think I'm turning into a werewolf. Or, at the very least, the scary old lady who lives in the basement of that one crooked rowhouse you hold your breath every time you pass lest its cooties waft through the air and get you. That would explain why I've been wearing the same clothes for the past week and why I haven't washed my hair in three times as long.
I won't ruin my rep by showing ya'll a picture. Remember me this way:
But know that this woman disappeared nearly a month ago. She's given over to her evil, sloppy and frazzled fraternal sister. The one who forgot to brush her teeth a few days ago, has no clue where her mascara is and who's been too lazy to put on "real clothes" so sweats are now evening wear. I'm in a spiral, ya'll. The thought of putting any extra effort into my existence just makes me sigh -- longingly. "The way I was."
In high school we had this dean -- "Mrs. Davis" I'll call her. Mrs. D wore the same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Black stretchy pants, a red and orange striped short-sleeved top and thick-soled black orthopedic shoes were her uniform. In four years, I never saw Mrs. D crumble under the social pressure to do anything but her. She was the most strict and possibly the smartest woman I'd ever met. To get out of a Mrs. D-monitored detention early you had to answer any question she posed correctly. I still recall my golden ticket -- "sans culottes." Funny.
Back then we racked our brains trying to figure out why Mrs. Davis didn't just put on another damn pair of pants. Or maybe even a nice blouse from The Limited?
It'd been suggested more than once that she had suffered some extreme physical and emotional trauma that kept her locked in a never-ending sartorial loop ala "Groundhog's Day."
Now I'm thinking Mrs. D was just over everything.
She'd been married, had a kid and run a high school bursting with too-smart-for-their-own-good brats. And presumably had a whole life before all that. So by the time she got up to the chalkboard, Mrs. D was done -- at least with the superficial stuff.
These past few weeks have been like a super storm of responsibility for me. We're moving apartments, which loses its fun factor after freshman year of college. I'm in yet another wedding in two weeks, after that we've got friends in town two weekends in a row, then I have a professional conference, mad deadlines and family obligations that can't be postponed another minute and so on and so on. The last thing on my mind has been what I look like. Each day is an endless loop of to-do lists, which always end in another, much longer list for tomorrow.
And so my hair has gone the way of the condor.
Along with my wardrobe choices outside of "yep, it's clean" and my will to do anything but hang on.
None of this bodes well for when and if I ever decide to add kids to my mix.
Having it all? Ha! Just give me half of the stuff and I'll be happy.
Thing is I was feeling sort of crappy about tapping out, as if I could never stand up to real heat of whatever commitments come with your 30s. But now, after realizing that no one gives a damn if you don't shave, or have the freshest hair do' or wear the same jeans for a week, I'm just as over it as Mrs. D used to be. Well, not quite.
I'm mustering up the energy to whip my hair into shape, but the next time I need a personal month I won't feel like a failure. More like a survivor.