Prissy

Five days a week, 187 days a year I dress and leave the house.  Semi put together, with make-up and jewelry anyway, ready to face adolescents.  I think I’m known for my unique style, one that I suppose has evolved over almost 57 years.  I give my morning routine no more thought than just another way to prepare for the day.

I go native in the summer.  Shorts, tee, flops.  Toilette consists of showering and washing my hair.  Period.

Except.

After being au natural for several days I feel the urge, nay, the compulsion to be me again.  I actually don real clothes, makeup, and jewelry.  And perfume.

The natural look is great most days. The hummingbirds, Harper Lee, and hydrangeas don’t seem to notice that I have on the same pair of khaki shorts I’ve worn three times this week. They all eat and drink what I offer whether I’m wearing eighty-three bracelets or not.

Right now I’m nursing the infirm and the Tabgaze doesn’t register whether I’m all gussied up or wearing burlap.  The lunch I pack for JT still tastes like a turkey, mustard, and cheese sandwich whether I’ve rosied my cheekbones with blush or not.  Facebook friends don’t know when I’m sitting at the computer with a WE tshirt from 1997.

But I don’t do it for other people.  I do it for me. 

Why?  Because I feel more like myself with eyeliner, subtle though it is.  (Ink by Bare Escentuals in case you were wondering.)  And after awhile I need to be reminded that I’m grown now, and grownups are expected to do certain things.

Like get dressed.