Last update: 13-Dec-2013 3:20 am
Friday, December 13, 2013
Trinidad & Tobago Guardian Online
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Being ‘glam mom’ for a night
Last week, I got ready for a date with my husband as a stunning almost-full moon rose over the Santa Cruz hills. I was, of course, jealous that the moon could look so celestially heavenly with so little effort. Meanwhile, my non-luminescent, just-battled-traffic-on-the-road self was trying to make the best of a dire mothering-worker what-not-to-wear situation.
I opted for these hot rollers that my mom gave me, hoping that they wouldn’t make me look like I was inadvertently (or worse purposely) rocking big 80s hair or, alternatively, trying to look like my mother (not that looking like her is bad, she’s actually way more glam than me, it’s just that who wants to go on a date with their man looking like their mom?).
I realised that I had no appropriate date-going-out clothes. This was for many reasons:
a) I go to work, I go home to my child, sometimes I go Maracas. I don’t go out, ergo I don’t notice when I don’t have going-out clothes
b) in the two years comprising being pregnant, giving birth, breast-feeding and being back at work, I’ve changed sizes multiple times and have given up getting new clothes until my body makes final decisions about which parts have grown, shrunk and shifted
c) I don’t have time or energy to shop, except for rushing to get pampers at Pennywise
d) I’m not really a shopper and usually am most comfortable in grungy jeans or barefoot by a river.
People may think going on a date with some stranger or new person is pressure. Nuh uh. Going on a date with the person you’ve been with for 14 years and trying to still look hot is pressure.
First, I figure the least you can do in these keep-the-spark-alive situations is wear a sexy panty. No hetero, happily married man is going to be unimpressed with the effort of donning some black lace pulled from the back of the drawer. So, I began crisis management from there.
Somehow, staring into the dark night of my closet, I found a top. Then I remembered I never wore it because, among other reasons, I never had—and still don’t have—the right strapless bra. Of course I haven’t gone bra-shopping to outfit myself for my new conditions. See a), b), c) and d) above.
Hot rollers. Check. Underwear he’ll want to take off. Check. I rig up a bra-esque something. Check. I got jeans that fit. Well. They kind of fit, but I could really do with a belt. Yep, no belt works with the top which I’ve finally got to work with the “bra.”
Skip the belt and just keep one hand pulling up the hook of the pants. Pretend strategy isn’t obvious. Find shoes to match. Ah shoes…Now, I’m not a high-heels kinda girl, just like I’m not a Chinese-foot-binding kinda girl—which is how I think of high heels. But, I'm trying to get into a good look without an over-the-phone session with a therapist here.
Find shoes that work with the hair/top/bra/panty. Husband comes in, sees the rollers. Asks if “all dat is necessary” as ‘we “jes going out.”
Wonder if it’s better that he didn’t notice I was in a mess or doesn’t care.
Take out rollers, fluff hair. Look like younger, less glam version of mother. Sigh.
Decide to focus on the fact of love, the moment of togetherness, the importance of what’s on the inside, and the cosmic radiance of an almost-full moon on a rare date night.
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