First let me tell you at the height of what was supposed to be my best years (read: pre-babies), I didn’t do much to “strut my stuff”. I am a jeans-&-sweats kind of gal and still can’t manage to look sexy or feminine in any kind of heel that isn’t attached to some kind of boot.
So added to the fact I work from home, it’s a given my kids rarely see me dolled up. I’m a not-so-shiny poster gal for the “Stay-at-home mom can’t get out of fashion rut” headlines we so often see.
This past weekend was my husband’s holiday party and the first chance to get my sparkle on since our youngest babe was born. I went so far as to book an appointment to get my hair blown out and my make up done. But thanks to a barrage of swim, dance and hockey classes loaded on top of back-to-back birthday parties, I only managed to pull off the blow dry.
I boldly asked for the “Hollywood” blow out, which for those of you who aren’t aware, means I was supposed to step out of the salon with a crown of hair reminiscent of J-Lo. It didn’t work out. Because, as my stylist gently pointed out, the fact I haven’t had a haircut in over six months was a bit of a hindrance.
I ended up looking more Shirley Temple than J-Lo, but still had about 10 minutes to slap on some make up and pull myself together. Now understand, I have never mastered the art of applying make up and go straight to places like Sephora where I’m able to make use of one their uber-gorgeous tour guides.
Sadly, my tour guide couldn’t make it to my bathroom that night. So I did my best to re-create what she had shown me in the store.
I ran downstairs and was met with four tiny, dumbfounded expressions. Even our babysitter wondered who had stopped by the house. I leaned in to kiss the baby goodnight and she promptly burst into tears.
On our way to the party, I brought up those tears and how sad it was she didn’t want me to leave. Hubby reassured me she’d be fine and then changed the subject (or did he?) by telling me how fetching I looked with my fancy dress and raccoon eyes.
I should have known.
The next morning, I asked our oldest how the baby had done after we left. She matter-of-factly replied, “Oh she was fine. She wasn’t sad you were leaving, Mommy. She was afraid of your eyes.”
Here’s my plan for next year’s party: spend entire year practicing how to walk in heels, get hair cut no more than three months before big night, slip Sephora girl a wad of cash and beg her to follow me home.
This is attainable in a year, right?