Have you ever had one of those weeks or days or maybe just an hour, where your self esteem was at an all time high? It’s like everything aligns just right to create the perfect you. You’ve got on a cute skirt with some new, strappy sandals and your hair has the perfect mix of body and curl that makes you want to freeze it in time, or at least coat it down with hairspray. Everywhere you go, you get compliments on your great skin, beautiful shoes, perfect hair….maybe you even get asked for your ID when buying an adult beverage.
Yeah, I’m not having one of those weeks.
And at this point, I’d be happy for one of those hours.
Let’s be honest, I’d take one of those minutes.
I guess it all started at the salon the other day when the pedicure lady asked if I’d like my mustache waxed, and I heard a sound in my ears like the screeching of a record being stopped. There is nothing like the suggestion of excess facial hair to make a girl feel a little less than her best.
I realize, like many of y’all commented, that maybe she just wanted to make a little extra money by toying with my facial hair phobias, but the truth is, I have a long, painful history with facial hair. I won’t bore y’all with story after story, but let’s just say that if I were to post a picture of me from high school, it would be hard to see my face underneath my unplucked eyebrows.
My mom swears that she tried to tell me I needed to pluck them and if I’m honest, I vaguely recall those conversations. But since I was 16 and knew everything, I didn’t listen. I look back now at that arrogant 16 year old with the eyebrows that needed industrial wax and a haircut, and wonder if my eyebrows were so long and thick that I couldn’t see myself in the mirror. How else can you explain that I didn’t notice two hairy, black caterpillars growing across my forehead?
So, the pedicure lady brought up some bad memories. Thank goodness for the Sally Hansen Hair Removing Wand that I bought at the grocery store. It’s even lavender scented because really, when you’re removing facial hair, it’s important that it smell good. That way, if P walks in the bathroom while I am mid-hair removal procedure, he won’t even notice the thick, white lotion spread across the top of my lip, because he will be so enthralled with the lovely scent emanating from the direction of my sink.
Then, today I had a lunch meeting with my co-worker Dee. Some of y’all, who have been reading for awhile, might remember Dee as the one who told me all about how her 13 year old daughter was so horrified by the fact that I have braces and couldn’t get over how terrible I looked.
There’s nothing that will make you feel quite as lovely as being mocked by a 13 year old.
At least, that’s what I thought, until today.
Most of my work clothes are at the drycleaners right now, so for the last two mornings I’ve put on a pair of black pants with a fitted, button down shirt which I’ve worn untucked, because honestly, I don’t tuck anything in, ever. I throw on my triple strand of pearls, some black high heels and pull my hair back in a ponytail because the humidity level has been hovering around 235%. It’s not my best look, but it’s certainly not horrible.
Anyway, I arrived at this lunch deal today and while I’m getting something to drink, Dee arrives. She looks at me and right in front of our clients, loudly says, “I can totally tell you’re pregnant with that shirt on.”
Now, before any of y’all offer your congratulations, let me tell you that I am most certainly not pregnant. The only thing that’s going to be coming out of me anytime soon, God willing, is about 15 pounds of water that I’m retaining due to PMS.
At least, I hope it’s water retention and all this bloating isn’t due to the entire pan of brownies that I ate in less than 24 hours by myself. Because then it wouldn’t be so much bloating, but more like fat.
Maybe I’m a little too cautious, but it is my personal policy that I do not offer anyone congratulations on their pregnancy or ask when their baby is due unless I see something happening at the business end of a woman in a delivery room. Otherwise, it’s just too risky.
The irony is that just the other day, Gulley and I were talking about spring fashion and the tunic-style tops that are in style. Gulley commented that she was scared to wear them because she would just die if someone asked her if she was pregnant. I smugly replied, “Nobody is going to ask you if you’re pregnant. Everybody knows that kind of stuff is in style right now. I wouldn’t worry about that at all.”
Apparently, I should have been worried.
Now, I’m off to do some sit-ups and take some Midol.
Or maybe just have another brownie.