So I was walking the dog on Wednesday. It's been damp and rainy here for days, which is awesome because the dog has had diarrhea forever, necessitating many damp walks and muddy footprints all over my house, not to mention the living room rug he turned into his personal toilet.
That morning, though, Elliott finally took the first solid poop since Saturday, an honest-to-god miracle, which is exactly what I said to him. As I was tying the bag, a girl strolled by, walking her own dog.
This creature looked like he belonged in some kind ugly dog contest. He was scrappy, with a length of course hair on the top of his head like a Mohawk.
But were the dog was hideous, his owner was adorable. She was wearing navy Hunter rainboots with gray knee socks and demin shorts. Her gray sweater was casually boxy in a way that might be frumpy in another context, but looked perfect and effortless here. Her purse was a neon green, a fun pop of color slung across her shoulder. Her hair was long and voluminous, messy in the kind of bed-head way the magazines suggest you try one day when you're low on time, showing a picture of a girl with hair like this girl had.
As she walked by, I wondered where I could get some gray knee socks. I mentally pieced together the rest of the outfit—Club Monaco for the sweater. Gap for the shorts.
And then I pictured myself wearing that outfit down the street, my bruised and pasty legs, a limp and greasy attempt at bed-head hair (otherwise known as my usual hair-do, which does NOT look like the picture in the magazine), loaded down with a diaper bag and a crying two-and-a-half year old.
I realized that I can't really do effortless chic.
My look really is effortless, though.
As in "without effort."
:::
I've been thinking about changing up my look lately—a new haircut, maybe a different color. I buy clothes with the idea that I'll look more put together at the PTO meeting, though in practice I always just wear the same yoga pants and sloppy ponytail. I'm often sweaty from the gym. Or damp from the rain. I have bags under my eyes, marinara handprints on my shirt, some sort of dried crud on my pants that could be just about anything.
But still, I've been trying to pull it together a little more, like in the days before I had children, when I blew my hair dry every day and wouldn't have set foot outside of the house without mascara.
:::
Scott and I went out the other night to hear a friend's band play. This is cool and unusual all by itself, and so I decided to channel my inner Zooey Deschanel, wearing a short cream-colored dress with giraffes printed on it that I bought on a whim in San Diego. I put on a double coat of mascara. I still wore the ponytail, but it was at least clean.
A few songs into the set, I wound through the crowd to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and, for once, felt pretty good. No visible patches of mucus on my sweater, eye make-up disguising the late hour and general lack of sleep.
I stepped out of the bathroom and crossed to the dancefloor to get a better look at the band. They were playing a Foo Fighter's song and I did a little shimmy and started to sing along.
A woman came up behind me and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
"I'm just going to take your skirt out of your tights," she said.
I sighed.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it.
And then I walked sadly back to my seat at the table.
