Saturday, Sept 21
The only way to describe the last few days is that I am a hot, hot mess. I mean, seriously. I haven’t even had a chance to sit and work on anything I want to do (insert crying emoji here). It’s always about them. You know. The kids. And, as much as I love them and want to devote every waking moment to them, I really really really (I mean really) need some time for myself.
And so I miss my makeup. I miss my itty bitty mommy time in the morning. I miss the feeling that, even if I don’t have any other moments for myself during the whole day, at least I had that and at least I felt like I looked good (no matter how tired I really am/was/will be). Waahhhhh (yes, insert another crying emoji—actually let’s make that a double).
Sure, I realize that NOBODY else gives a hoot what I look like. Makeup. No makeup. Yoga pants. Fancy yoga pants (yes, there is such a thing! and it does count as “dressing up” when you’re a mom). But I still do! And I’m starting to wonder if that’s really such a bad thing. Can’t I care about what I look like, even if nobody else does?
NOBODY cares about my makeup, or my lack of. But I (okay, you really lose the emphasis of all caps when the word you want to emphasize is a single letter word like “I”, insert frowny face here) really, really do. And I really feel like wearing makeup gives me a little boost of confidence that seems to make the day a bit less dreary. So sue me! Judge me! Hate me! Love me! I don’t give a flying rat’s petootie! Okay?!?
Whoa, sorry. That was harsh. That was the inner me, you know, the one that gets pushed to the back burner while the outer me runs around to double soccer pictures, double soccer games, and the only five minutes of time to sit down is when I nurse the little monster. Yes, she’s cute. I love her (obviously), but man, she is a monster sometimes. Ripping out my hair, screaming if I (God forbid) put her down for two seconds. I mean, she’s HUGE, so I can’t hold her ALL the time.
And she’s not only crawling, but now is angry-baby unless she’s standing up (wabbly) holding onto something (the coffee table, my legs, a chair) and needs CONSTANT supervision, especially in a not-so-clean house, and even when I do finally clean up and feel like it should be okay for her to cruise around in. There is no such thing as a clean house when you have kids. No. Such. Thing.
And so, woe is me once again. Having a hard time dealing with this whole thing. Instead of enjoying it, feeling liberated by it. I am feeling like a frumpy, sweaty, tired, horrid, hot mess. Without makeup, I feel there is no reason to even dress cute. Like my attire should match the rest of this “look”, if you can call it that. I mean, I like that I don’t feel so greasy at the end of the day when all the makeup has sort of melted off, but I miss it. Call me lame. Call me pathetic. Call me over-dramatic (because you know I’ve never heard that one before, wink wink). But pppllllleeeeeaaaaasssseeeee hurry up and make this stupid 30 days end so I can once again look the way I am supposed to look. Like me!
Sure, I am trying to accept how I really look (without makeup), but I’m kind of getting over that. I mean, I feel like the way I really look is the me with makeup on. That is the me I miss. That is who I think of as being the “real” me. So, here’s to 19 (painstaking, awful, horrible, unending, not-liberating, not-fun, not-pleasant, not-educational, miserable, tiring, and so on and so on and so on) more days of this experience.
And here’s to hoping that by the end of this thing I can afford to re-up on my supply! I kind of think the lady at the makeup counter misses me as much as I miss her…