I got an email from my buddy Anne on Tuesday night. “What time do you get off work tomorrow night?”
“Five ‘o clock,” I said. “Just come over anytime after that.”
“Will that give you enough time to get pretty?”
Suddenly it hit me – I’ve grown old and I’ve grown frumpy.
Just a few years ago, I remember buying a beautiful shirt from Lane Bryant – it was a cranberry colored shirt, silky material, kind of baby-doll cut with a rosette up on the right shoulder. I wore that with the dark jeans I had bought a couple weeks before that and forgive my arrogance, but I looked smokin’ hot. And I think I paid $60 for that shirt. I did pay for that out of pocket, that was after I had gone cold turkey off my credit cards, but man … that chick from a couple of years ago would be pretty horrified by her 30-year-old self.
The girl from a couple years ago spent time doing her makeup and hair. I remember trying on that shirt and just falling in love with it – there was really no reason to buy it. It was definitely a party shirt that was to be worn for one purpose: Clubbing. I wouldn’t be able to wear that shirt to work or to church or even to the grocery store. That shirt was built for dancing.
I have no clue what I’m wearing this year and since I invited my friends over for a couple of pre-festivity cocktails, I’ll be lucky if I manage to swipe a comb through my hair, let alone change from work clothes to civilian wear.
I don’t know – I’m lucky to be in the relationship that I’m in. Future Husband and I knew each other in college and if there was a frumpy time in my existence, the flannel shirts and sweatpants I lived in during senior year would probably qualify.
But still – I’m also patting myself on the back though. This 30-year-old frump has her priorities straight.
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