I don’t consider myself a pack rat, infact I like to live under the delusion that I’m a minimalist at heart who’s just profoundly imperfect at it. Truth be told our house gets bogged down in clutter more often than I care to admit but when I have a few hours without kids I regularly grab a trashbag and freak out, throwing away everything in sight. Seriously though, things that genuinely never get used don’t last terribly long around here… or at least they rarely do.
So can somebody tell me why on earth when I did a bathroom-trashbag freakout the other day I had all this?
I can count on one partially amputated hand how many times in the last 10 years I’ve worn makeup or put my hair up in anything fancier than a braid or bun… and I can count on a completely amputated nub how many times I’ve done it without looking stupid as a result. (I’ll give you a hint, it’s none.)
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got plenty of self concious image hang ups… I’m practically swimming in body image issues… mine are just the kind aided by spanx not concealor.
But occasionally I’ll be at the store and see some fancy girly face thing and say “Oh, I’ll use that, this is different than the other things I have, the color is way better, I’ll totally use this.” and apparently that has happened a few more times than I had realized. So of course for all the big talking I do about simplicity and all that jazz this little fiasco made me feel like a big fat failing hypocrite… and I’m not sure why I’m even telling
both of you you all this except that maybe I think I deserve a little more shame over it all….
…although in a half hearted attempt to redeem myself I’m going to end this weird and rambling post with a little story about how, with the exception of a few thrift store pairs for various costumes and whatnot, I am about to buy the first pair of shoes I’ve gotten for myself in half a decade because the ones I’ve been wearing the previous half decade died yesterday. Died a death that duck tape can’t fix.