Farewell, Yellow T-Shirt

There is only one full-length mirror in my house.  It hangs on the back of the door of a seldom-used closet. There is a good reason for that.  Most of the time I hate how I look. The mirror just makes it worse.

I had to go into that closet today.  I caught a glimpse of myself.  I thought somebody must be standing behind me.  Nope, that is me.

The too-huge sweatpants with the remnants of Rocco's fur are singularly unattractive.  The t-shirt, a faded yellow one that Hubby and both sons want for a car rag is so old it is nearly threadbare in strategic spots.  Make-up and jewelry are non-existent.  My silver mop of hair sticks out wildly from behind my ears.  Hubby's old socks that I should have thrown out, but didn't, cover my feet. Most of my feet. A toe sticks out.  My unmentionables are unmentionable.  I pray no one comes to the door.

Yes, I am at home.  Yes, I was comfortable until I saw myself.  Yes, I have seen other women dress like this in public, something I would never do.  Why not? Because I'm vain, that's why.  There is no excuse for the way I look today.  I am healthy.  I am not cleaning or painting.  I am lazy.

I got out my meditation CD and my cookie-scented candle.  A slew of questions came to mind.  The first one was, when did I become such a slob?

I thought back to my cycles of depression--the saggy polyester pants suits, scuffed toes, my hair in a bun or pony tail because it was easy.  I thought about when I was on the high school reunion committee and was told I needed a new coif, and the day my cousin told me he hadn't seen me in a skirt since I was ten. I thought about the classmate who made the "frumpy" remark.  The all-too-recent episodes of tugging at my too-short shirt and going to bed in a t-shirt and sweats instead of a pretty nightie taunted me.  I remembered the days of staying in bed hugging a pillow instead of dragging myself into the shower.

When I go to work or to church or to the grocery I am fresh and neat.  I wear make-up, brush my silver hair till it shines.  I might wear jeans and sneakers, but they aren't ratty ones.  My shoes shine. I care.

So why do I let myself look like this at home?  Doesn't my husband of forty years deserve to see me in clean, well-fitting clothes?  If I will put on make-up and earrings for strangers, shouldn't I do it for him?   Of course.

I am in the market for new things anyway.  My clothes run the gamut from too small to too big.  My unmentionables are serviceable, but that's all.  Some of those clothes were never in style to begin, and certainly are not now.  I will heave-ho every turtleneck and every pair of too-baggy sweats.  The yellow t-shirt and its cousins will wax the GTO.

Instead, I will buy satin and silk and lace in black and pretty pastels.  If I can't find pants that fit, I will wear skirts that show off my getting-shapelier legs.  My shirts will show that I am a woman, but still  a lady.   Ah, yes, I will invest in decent pajamas.

Most important,  I will no longer allow myself to look like a clone of a Carol Burnett cleaning lady when I am home.  Yes, it is that important.