The bedhead that greeted me in the mirror this morning was really quite spectacular. I mean, I've seen some good ones before--my roommate once just walked out of her bedroom and pointed wordlessly at her head...there was nothing either of us could say in the presence of such a marvel--but mine today was really pretty good. It looked very much like Beatrice's fascinator from the royal wedding was growing out of the back of my head.
But the best was look was yet to come. A few hours later, when I pulled into a parking space and turned off the loser cruiser, I suddenly realized (as if someone else had been responsible for dressing me) that I was out in public IN RUNNING SHOES. Not cute little runners, not Cons, nothing like that. Just...runners. And, in the interest of full disclosure here, I will also admit that I was still wearing the t-shirt and sports bra I had worn for my work out. So I was wearing running shoes AND rockin' the uniboob.
Why did I think that just changing from yoga pants to jeans had made it all okay? That the switcheroo had magically rendered the rest of the outfit socially acceptable? Why didn't I just take the extra twelve seconds to lift and separate the girls and put on a shirt that isn't XXL and doesn't falsely give people the idea that I ran for the cure when we all know I just walked briskly for it?
Egads.
As God is my witness, I'll never be schlumpy again.
No comments:
Post a Comment