I don’t want to say that we are not cool and never go anywhere anymore, but you should know that we’ve been married for ten years and have spent the great majority of the last eight of those years mostly home bound with at least one kid. Husband would probably retort, “Speak for yourself. I’m hip. I’m Jiggy wit it”, and while I would be nodding my head in genuine agreement, he would be shaking his sadly, because it was just a Dr. Evil quote of a Will Smith song and he knows how uncool even the quote is. Yet tonight we are going somewhere. We are going somewhere without kids and we won’t be back until its dark outside, so top that! I really hope you are familiar with the glory that is the 1989 movie “Teen Witch” and when I state, “Top That”! you and I are envisioning the same dance off sequence (which, if I was imbibing tonight, I would be attempting to recreate). If some tragedy befell you and you are somehow unfamiliar with this gem, please You Tube it, I will wait. You’re welcome.
This leads me to an assessment of what it takes to get ready to actually go somewhere that doesn’t require you to push a cart (the vast majority of my routine hangouts). In order to fully appreciate what has become of me, I will take a quick trip down memory lane of how it used to be. You know, before I woke up like dis.
In the days of my gainful employment and free time I had the luxury of things like a fragrance library (multiple unique perfumes, amassed after trips to Sephora, the actual brick and mortar where paychecks go to die), coordinating underpinnings (that didn’t enlist boning, rows of hooks, unicorn tears or Sara Blakely) and most important, vision. 24 hours before an event, I would be sure to have the day off, wherein I would lie in the sun (I should mention the importance of SPF and regular screenings here, but circa 2006 it was more like an untied bikini and tanning oil), mostly napping and sipping ice cold sparkling water to hydrate and detoxify. I might add a few ribbons of strategic blonde highlights (followed by a hot oil hair treatment), scour magazines for makeup inspiration (the simpler days before Pinterest and Instagram gave us access to MILLIONS of ideas) and schedule a mani/pedi in a color of high contrast to my outfit of choice. A full exfoliation, followed by a cocoon of body butters and oils, Biore strips across the T-zone followed by a hydrating face mask, ten hours of sleep and then I would be ready to face the perils of putting on a dress and going out.
Now, let me share my morning with you, if I may. Because the youth of America (namely a neighborhood kid about four houses away) intends to give our dog an anxiety induced heart attack (yes, I know its fourth of July weekend, and yes, I was a teenager too at one point), we spent a chunk of the previous night assuring our four legged friend that the world was not actually ending. Culminating with the high note of a raccoon scavenging around our back porch vaguely protected from our now hysterical dog by a simple sliding glass door. Needless to say I would not be securing the required ten hours of beauty sleep. This morning I had the brilliant idea that I would dedicate myself to my children’s happiness by giving them my undivided attention while painting their teeny tiny finger and toenails, pushing them on the swing set, swimming together while enjoying the musical stylings of Radio for Kids Radio and generally being the WORLD’S BEST MOM. My suggestion of waiting to paint those microscopic nails until after we went swimming (so the paint wouldn’t come off) was quickly extinguished by the burning desire to do them first. Likewise, my observation that if we did the swings before the toes, there wouldn’t be grass clippings attaching themselves magically to the paint was overruled. (Helpful hint, clean up after the dog before going out to the swings, just do it. The silver lining to this sequence was not in the repainting of the fingernails (ALL THE POLISH IS COMING OFF MOM) nor was it the repainting of toes (I GOT GRASS STUCK TO MINE, MOOOOOM), but in the declaration that “I did not just punch her, I probably just hit her with a part of my hand because I am tired and I need a nap” (High five).
No big deal, I just need to arrange quick baths and get jammies out. Except they went in the pool yesterday too and I didn’t have the iron will to detangle all of that hair last night before bed, so I was dealing with two days of chlorine plus bed head. That deep conditioner pack I had squirreled away? This was an honest to goodness break glass in case of emergency situation. Bathed, hair detangled (tears, there are so many tears, and not just mine), kids in bed for naps, my husband asked me what the plan was for lunch and did I feel like a sub. Seeing as though my dieting should have commenced six weeks earlier and I hadn’t bothered, I agreed. In the time he used to get lunch, I unstacked and stacked the dishes, fed the dog, set up the coffee’s auto brew for tomorrow, took out the trash and thought about how this is probably all too relatable for you guys. By the time the subs were plated, the girls (though not rested, at least refreshed) came to join us for lunch. The kids backpacks are packed for a sleepover tonight (I still need to veto the snow boots, elbow length gloves, and candy necklaces, replacing them with underwear, bathing suits and loveys) and I will call that a win. But I still need to shower, squeeze into the corset of shame, and swipe on some of the perfume samples July’s magazines have lovingly provided for me. I might not be my old self but I do have Will Smith radio on Pandora and I am down to get Jiggy Wit It, if only for an evening.