At the peak of this slippery slope I was well-intentioned. I had babies attached to my breasts; I was surrounded by little people who loved me with or without good makeup and hair; and the only adults I “interacted” with were guests on Oprah and the Dr. Phil Show.
But my oldest is now six and I must admit that I’ve slid off the slope to land, belly-up, in the frumpy gully. It’s a sad day, folks. Can’t look away though, can you? It’s like a train wreck. With cellulite.
So here I am, a good 40 pounds over my marriage weight, frumpy as hell. I stopped wearing contacts years ago because something about pregnancy and childbirth dried my eyes out. And even after my good pair of glasses broke I didn’t look for something more attractive and less flimsy than the backup pair. My hair is long and limp, when once upon a time, it was highlighted and styled. Gone are the days when I used to “get ready” to go out. Most Sundays I end up at church with wet hair. And don’t even get me started on my wardrobe.
And you’re going public with this, you ask.
Yep. I’m comin’ out!
And this is why. Because I once (once, I said) knew Dr. Phil intimately (and by "intimately" I mean watched him everyday on TV), so I’m well aware that you can’t fix what you don’t acknowledge. This is my first step towards backing away from the frump to take better care of myself.
I think I realized just how frumpy I’d become when Leah informed me that the neighbor girl had said I was a “little fat.” My lovely daughter defended my honor and told me that she had said, in no uncertain terms, that her mommy is NOT fat. Bless her heart. I was flattered that the neighbor girl just said a little.
I submit to you exhibit A, a picture aforementioned neighbor girl drew of me earlier this week:
I’m the red one, by the way. Notice the two-distinct orbs? That would be where I carry the bulk of my weight: the boobs and mid-section (and by mid-section I mean everything between my head and ankles). For a 5-year old this neighbor girl is very perceptive. Although, I must admit, her picture isn’t to scale, for if I looked like that I wouldn’t be frumpy, I’d be Mae West or Marilyn Monroe. And I’d have an extra pair of arms. Or legs. I can’t tell which.
So there you have it—undeniable proof that I’ve let myself go to the dark side (where they have cookies. You’ve seen the t-shirt, right?).
But instead of reprimanding myself for my frumpiness and requiring an immediate diet and exercise regime, in this post I am pledging to take better care of myself. And in honor of Independence Day, I’ve thought of 6 ways to get a little pampering (when you have kids, pampering equates to freedom, right?). And here they are:
1. Watching a movie of my choice, uninterrupted, and all by my lonesome.
2. Shopping, sans chart (sans children).
3. Reading a book (at the moment I’m just 20 pages into Toni Morrison’s Love.)
4. Getting a nice cut and color (and not at Great Clips).
5. Enjoying a long, hot bath (while doing #3).
6. Talking forever with a good friend.
Only recently have I discovered how much better I parent when I take care of myself first (I know, I’m slow). So, in honor of my children, all those I care for, and myself, I pledge to celebrate me this week by getting a nice cut and color. Down with the frump!
Okay. I want to hear it. I know none of you are frumpy like me, but what woman doesn't deserve a little TLC? Are you willing to take the Pamper Pledge right here and now? How will you celebrate yourself this week? Follow through, ladies, I’m looking for follow through (and I know where you blog…)