Selfies and Pajamas

It was a little after noon on a Thursday, and I had been in back-to-back meetings since 6am. I decided to spend half of my lunch break taking a much, much needed shower. I wasted an unholy amount of water and scented scrubs getting myself to a point where I felt refreshed.

I slathered on globs of whipped shea butter and gave myself an approving nod in the mirror. I ran my fingers over rows and rows of colorful clothing options and ultimately decided on a buttery soft, heathered set of gray pajamas. 

For the first time that week, I felt good. I felt human.

I walked into the living room and Hurricane gave me a quick once-over from her perch on the couch. “Look at you,” she said, clearly unimpressed. 

“W-what?” I stammered. She’d never said that phrase before, so I was curious to see where this was going. “What do you mean?”

She paused the game on her tablet and turned to look me square in the eye. “Just look at yourself,” she said in her self-assured way. 

“What am I looking at, exactly?” I chuckled nervously and looked awkwardly at my hands. 

Hurricane sighed. “You’re just wearing pajamas,” she stated.  “Pajamas are for the night. The sun is up and your hair is silly.” 

If you don’t have thick skin, here is where I caution you to think long and hard before having children. 

I didn’t have a comeback for her because she wasn’t entirely wrong, so I went to tattle to MisterE. “Do you know what your daughter just said to me?” I asked, hands on my hips. I indignantly recounted the conversation Hurricane and I had just had.

“Well…” MisterE said in his slow, measured way. “She does have a point.”

I squinted at my traitor husband in disbelief. I should have known that would be his response. Just the previous week, he himself had called me out on my choice of clothing. The memory came rushing back to me. 

I was headed to a dentist appointment and was running late (because meetings!) so I grabbed whatever clothing I could get my hands on in 20 seconds. In this case, it was a pair of MisterE’s sweatpants that had shrunk so many times in the wash they were practically Hurricane’s size. I had on a purple pajama shirt, but instead of changing I simply threw a bright orange hoodie on over it. There was no time for earrings, accessories, or even the brushing of hair. I hate to be late! 

I ran to the door and slid on my trusty, clunky FILA slides. Come on, shoes you can slide into? Genius!

“Yep,” I heard MisterE quip from the dining room. “Those shoes really complete the look.” I looked back at him and winked. “You know I’m cute,” I simpered, and dashed off to my car. 

I remember wondering that day if perhaps I should put more effort into my appearance when I leave the house. 

My “problem” is that I either look like a glamazon or a colorblind hobo. There is no in-between. My nails are never done, my eyelids are eternally naked, and my hair makes its own decisions. 

I used to think I wasn’t bothered by this, but there is a part of me that wants to do better. I’ve thus far breezed through life on the merit of my wit and my crippling social anxiety, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be cute(r) from time to time.  

So I’ve set a goal for myself: to take twelve great self portraits over the next year. Might not sound like much, but I really don’t enjoy being photographed. I should probably rephrase that to I don’t like the way I look in photographs. This becomes a bit of an issue when you decide to start a blog and people want to know what you look like!

Anyway, I figure that being on the hook for 12 pictures a year will be just the type of atomic habit that encourages me to get it together AND get more creative with my photography. 

Am I alone in my love for loungewear? Let me know if you have any life hacks for getting yourself pulled together in a hurry. And PLEASE, give me some photography tips. Selfies are hard.

Have fun!