I am struggling to get dressed. Not for work. For after work. For a night out with a girlfriend.
I’m 35 and single. I can dress my 35 year old self just fine. It is dressing the single girl that is difficult. As if single requires trendiness or skinny jeans or highlights instead of greylights. Complex equipment cluttering my bathroom countertop or equations to balance patterns and fit of clothing.
This is how getting dressed plays out in my head, maps of all exits are in the basket to your left.
34 and married was more forgiving. Last season’s jeans were overlooked because of a ring on the right finger, or the proper left hand finger, actually. Your requirement to be cutting edge is overshadowed by the cuteness of your children–or even their trendy outfit. I don’t think I have the energy to follow the fashion trends of 8 month olds any longer. I may be doomed.
**Insert image here of a brain sliding swiftly down the slipper slide to Woetown.**
It is too late for me to find fashion forgiveness through matrimony. Too late for sassy onesies that I believe others will see as my literary brillance balanced with the simplicity of nuturing a la Mother Theresa.
I am too tired for the chase or the race.
Then I hear it.
Women are not born with that grace. Our birth doesn’t bestow us with a golden ticket pass to the rose colored world of AllsWellVille. I may be exhausted by the idea of a newborn. Or too stubborn for blind dates. Petrified by small talk that starts with Hi! I’m LG and I’m a __________. (All that trauma/drama because I refuse to use the A word…A.R.T.I.S.T.)
Lucky for me, God gives His own push presents. They may not appear in dainty robin’s egg colored boxes but they do make the race worth entering and the chase worth starting. Harrowing stories of 38 hours of actual labor to give birth to a baby are not required for such gifts. Grace comes after the guy doesn’t call back and your teary eyes open to the reality that you are still you and that is enough. Grace dons shoulder pads to cushion your cheek when missing someone you lost comes barreling down on you like a lionness hunting on a National Geographic special–and you are the smallest impala in the group. We push and He guides, comforts and cheers from the finish line.
Although, just a side note here, if I expect anything to come my way in such a sweet little box (blue or otherwise), I might need to leave the smokey eye make up tricks to the professionals. Just sayin. And all the girls with two left hands said, “Amen!”