At 32 years old, I am finally actually pretty comfortable with the way I look.
(Yes, I had a birthday last week. No, that's not what's prompting this. At least not that I know of. Hmmm.)
The thing is, I'm so comfortable that I don't bother wearing makeup. Or moisturizer. Or washing my face. Or brushing my hair. And the shirt I'm wearing seems to have a catch in it that may or may not be opening up into a hole.
I'm starting to wonder if maybe this isn't such a good thing.
I've never been a particularly fussy person about appearances, and I'm kind of proud of that. At certain points of my life, I thought it meant I was more serious, less frivolous, and I strongly resisted becoming the kind of girl who primped. For most of my adult life, including when I was working, I found ways to do the minimum that would get me out the door 10 minutes after I fell out of bed and still look professional enough that I wouldn't end up in the principal's office.
For a stay at home mom? The minimum? Is nothing.
How liberating, to not have to care what I look like. There's nobody to worry about being pretty for.
Except, well, me.
I'm starting to think that maybe spending a few minutes looking presentable every day is time well spent.
Don't get me wrong. I'm never going to "put on a full face" whatever that means. You will not find me using any appliances on my hair. I am not interested in getting regular manicures, or any skin treatment with a name.
But maybe I should wash my face. And get the knots out of my hair. And tweeze my eyebrows once in a while. And a little color on my lips wouldn't kill anyone.
Because, even though I don't HAVE to, maybe it's something that matters. Maybe taking care of my outward appearance a little bit will make me feel better. And maybe it won't take away from but will add to who I am on the inside.
It's worth a try.