Beauty and the beast

This is sort of a weird thing for me to post about, but I've been having a debate with myself for awhile on this issue, and I thought I'd just throw it out there and see what happens. You see, I pretty much always know what I think about things, but I continue to debate this issue in my head. So let's free it from those moldy confines and puke it onto the pile of nonsense that is my blog.

Basically this is a post about wardrobe, hair, and makeup. The stuff of pettiness. Or not pettiness. That's the issue. You see, I am most definitely a casual person. I have an extensive collection of lounge wear. And I do mean extensive. I probably own in excess of 30 pairs of pants with an elastic waist, including a diverse array of items such as track pants, sweat pants, yoga pants, etc. And I wear them a lot. In the summer I usually wear your basic tank top and a shorts version of the elastic waist pants. I wear Crocs a lot, and they're somewhat unkempt from doubling as my garden shoes. Or I wear my walking shoes, which have a couple billion miles on them. As a general rule, I don't put on any makeup. I've taken to showering in the evening because then I can stand there and let the day rinse off uninterrupted. I then apply a spray gel into my curly hair and put it in a bun on top of my head, and go to sleep with a wet head. So the next day, my hair is kind of half curly and half smashed, so I usually end up putting it in a pile on my head or a french braid. I wear my glasses more often than not, since I have dry eyes and my contacts freaking hurt after awhile. There is a far greater than 50% chance (and by that I mean 90% chance) that you're going to catch me looking like I just don't give a shit. (If you're curious, this is a long-standing trend and not mom-induced. Despite holding a professional job at a software company for for six years, our dress code was literally, "you must wear clothes," and I took that shit to heart. I wore plaid flannel pants to work a lot and managed to not be frowned upon for it, at least formally.)

Now, I'm not one of those people who is so clueless that I insist upon dressing like a hellbeast when I am going to be attending something that involves, well, things like deviled eggs or balloons or pinatas or some shit. I have a pretty extensive wardrobe of nice clothes. I don't mean designer clothes or even moderately expensive clothes, but rather a bunch of sale-priced dresses and skirts and tops and shoes and the sort of things one needs to select a nice outfit for the sort of occasions one goes to in the course of maintaining human relationships. I can apply makeup to cover the uglies and enhance the pretties without looking like a clown-faced idiot. My hair can be styled in a fairly reasonable configuration of the long curly hair variety. I can put contacts in my eyes. I can select some jewelry to tie the room together. I clean up all right, and spend time doing so, trying on multiple outfits and that sort of thing, worrying whether or not I'm back fatty and whatnot. And although the previous paragraph paints a pretty horrifying picture, I'm not one of those people who is so far gone that when I actually put things together a little bit my acquaintances stop in their tracks and scream, "Whoa! Where are you going?" A modestly put together Big W does make probably at least a weekly appearance, at least for church or something.

The thing is, as I concluded in this long-ago post, I am comfortable in my skin. I am proud that I weigh a goodly amount less than when I got pregnant with Phook, and that my body is pretty fit and strong, albeit stretched and sagged in that irreparable sort of way, and apple-shaped in that "too bad you're a chick built like a trucker" sort of way. I really, really like to be comfortable. I don't have to fret and fuss in order to run a quick errand, and there is a certain amount of freedom in that. But, if I'm being honest, I have to admit that I do feel at least a teensy weensy bit better about myself if I have my shit together. Okay, fine, I feel like I could take down a zebra like I'm some kind of crazy predator on the Discovery Channel, as opposed to my standard confidence level which generally only has me feeling smug in the knowledge that I'm smarter and funnier than everyone I meet.

But there is, of course, another thing. Hence, the post. People (strangers, that is) treat me differently, very differently, depending on which version of Big W is stepping out. It almost feels like a sociological experiment. Like I'm Gloria Steinem in the bunny suit or some shit. People are very nice and friendly to Big W in makeup. People can, sadly, be a bit dismissive of Big W in slobwear. You can see a lot reflected back in the eyes of people who are looking at you. I am a six foot tall woman, and people do generally notice me because I'm blocking their sun. This is, of course, never more pronounced than when in a retail environment, particularly one where the salespeople work on commission. The place where Big K purchased my engagement ring is a chain jewelry store. I'm not sure how large of a chain it is. They act like they're upscale, but it's kind of just that faux upscale thing that a lot of these places are rocking. (My ring is beautiful, don't get me wrong...I don't mean to go there...) Anyhow, my ring's service plan thing requires six-month checkups, so I have gone in there with some regularity over the years. And the way I am received in that joint is tied directly to which Big W is out on the town. In my track pants, all the snobby associates' eyes sort of go blank in disappointment, and finally one of the jerks saunters over and asks if I need anything. In my fitted winter coat (which despite the fact that it cost me about $49 with a free shipping coupon from a catalog six years ago, has actually been mistaken for a designer item) those asses are clawing each other's eyes out to meet me at the door. This makes me furious, and I frequently debate the merits of writing a nasty letter to the company's president or the store's manager or something. And I know that in this setting it is all about the staff's incredibly flawed perception of my ability to spend, rather than my value as a human. I know that, but it's a good example nonetheless.

So I feel like I'm sounding pretty shallow so far, and not making a clear point. It seems simple enough that I'm comfortable with myself, and who gives a rat's ass what my friendly neighborhood asspies at the jewelry store think when I know my friends and family love me and think I'm rad? There should be no debate. But there is. The debate is that I wonder if I am selling myself short by not putting the time into myself every day. Big K always says "perception equals reality" (although he does not make the statement in this context, of course, since he loves me crazylike and I know it), and I find myself wondering if I really am a slob if I look like one all the time. If I don't bother to cover up my zits, am I sending the message to the world that I don't respect myself enough to spend 30 seconds on myself? Am I devaluing myself by not taking the time to "look my best"? Am I, as I cruise around in my free minivan with my hair frizzed out around my head in my stained tank top, just beginning a long decline into a complete lack of self-respect?

I'm not considering upgrading to becoming the type of chick who starts every day by painstakingly turning my curly hair straight. I'm not considering becoming the type of woman who goes to bed in full makeup out of fear that my house might go up in smoke and the firemen are going to see me without eyeliner. But should I spend 10 minutes every morning putting in my contacts, covering up the zits and throwing on a little mascara, reactivating the curls in the hair, and occasionally wearing something slightly less tired mom-uniformish? Someone tell me, please.

I look at other women quite a bit for silent guidance on this. The thing is, I have very dear friends on both sides of this fence, and they are all beautiful to me. My BFF is the most casual person in the history of the world. Hell, she's grimy. She wears the same thing for a week without washing it because she's so cheap she doesn't want to spend the money on laundry, despite the fact that she works out in the damned shirt every day. No makeup, except for extra special circumstances. And let me tell you, probably 452 guys have been in love with this girl, because she somehow manages to remain cute. She doesn't give two shits about the trappings of girlishness. I admire her intensely for this. I have other friends who have a "look." They have a distinct style that all their clothing and general personage reflects. Trendy mama, nerdy hottie, sultry mysterious ringlets and all that, classic cool, whatever. No matter where, when, or how, these ladies always look lovely. And I admire them so much for that too. It takes work to put shit together to that degree, and, well, it's nice to look at prettiness. So WTF? Help me here, people?

Fuck, this is all the patriarchy's fault. It doesn't matter, just be yourself, blah, blah, blah, whatever. I can say that, I can. But I still can't answer my own question: does looking like a slob make me a slob?

Oh lordy, I was just struck by an intense pang of fear that I was somehow offensive in this post. I must post it immediately and walk away.