I guess one reason people blog is to be able to come back to our words again and again..to see where we were, maybe where we are..
It’s easy to joke about the “way we were”..how we’d lie in bed ’til 12pm or take off for the weekend on a whim. How evenings were spent smoking and coffeeing until the sun rolled up, or how we’d spend a real amount of money on absolutely nothing at all. It’s easy to laugh at how we planned an entire home with no closed cupboards at all and so nearly bought a sofa in white. Yep, it’s easy to joke about those things because we chose to let them go; it’s not so easy to joke about the way things were – the way you were – when it just seemingly slipped away.
Who is this person with the excess weight and home-cut hair? When did she come around?
I turned down an invite this week. An event for an acquaintance who could become a friend. A formal dress party, women only…could have been fun.
The last time a stiletto was on my foot was pre-pregnancy. And exactly when, I don’t remember. But there are many a gorgeous pair gathering dust in the wardrobe. I can’t bear to part with them all at once, so gradually they go. Skipped into the charity bag at last minute – no time for second thoughts. You know that thing when you’re a kid, how you save the best for last? opening that wardrobe door makes a Marcos out of me,but the thought of actually wearing a pair, holding a baby and (likely) standing for two hours or more..no. I just can’t. So I close the door. At a guess, these may not cut it, huh?
Yeah. Home-cut hair. In university there was a girl who never let a hairdresser near her gorgeous locks. She did it herself, randomly. No training, no plan, just hacking with scissors – usually after a drink or two. Anyone have her number?
I will never complain about the wonderful blessing that is the ability to feed M myself, but I’m the first to acknowledge dressing for a feeding babe is rather easier said than done. It’s proven easier than I thought it would be, but a formal, no clothing restrictions outfit doesn’t exist in my wardrobe right now. Too short, too long, too much material, not enough. No buttons or too much access; the flashing of belly flesh or the wriggle right out. Nursing bras are cuter than they were ,and the pads even more so; even so, they’re not the kind of thing you want on show. Unless they’re these. That could be nice. Sadly, mine aren’t those, they’re a prime example of the former kind..so, bra-less? Pleassseeee!
The perfect dress must be out there somewhere, but I have neither the required time nor the inclination to shop for a dress I would be unable to wear again. Apart from at home and I don’t somehow see G going with the whole let’s dress up for dinner, thing. So I’ve bailed, and that’s fine. I’ll spend those hours playing with my son and relishing the extra time, but I’m taking the lesson I needed. Twenty-six is too young to say “the way I was” and settle on in.
It’s time to invest a little effort in me. Sort out that hair and remember who I was. Time to see clothes again not just walk on by, blinkered ’til practical T’s hits the radar.
Back to the words, and it’s so easy to hit delete, but erasing is permitting to forget, and forgetting is an avenue to repetition.
It’s time to really find this “me”.The one in the scarf, underneath the veil. The one with the babe when the babe’s fast asleep. The one underneath the hair. And next time the invites roll on in, I’ll be ready to take off the hijab and dress up to the nines, revealing me – retaining me.
(n.b. I spent 30 mins trying to add a pre-hijab pic into this post and lost connection every time. Let’s call that ‘divine intervention’, shall we?) Bismillah