Always look your best: a note from a slob

It’s Sunday. It’s raining out and although I am thrilled to death that I have no plans, at some point I must venture out. Will I work out? Get my nails done? Go to lunch with my husband? Go to a playwriting group? Check yes to all of the above! So even though I have some cute outfits, I never wear my Sunday best. I wear whatever is nearby — and I always look like crap. My hair is in a bun and I usually wear my pink Converse and something scary. To be perfectly honest, I wear clothes that should be thrown away – and it seems to give me pleasure to looks so awful. Maybe I am rebelling from having to dress up to go to an office day in and day out. Maybe this desire to be a pig stems from growing up in the mountains, or the fact that I once lived in the outback for thirty days and wore the same four outfits and never took a shower.

But now I’m much different — during the week if you catch me I usually look pretty nice — and lately I’ve even been keeping up on my hair, it’s “coiffed.”

My grandma had a mantra — and it was always look your best — you never know who you might see. My granny always looked like a million bucks, and my mom always looks good and they’ve always been harping on me about my appearance. Well, I learned something recently —

One Sunday, I was uncharacteristically trying to look a little dapper. I was trying to look cute, which I should just give up on that plan: it’s Sunday, it won’t happen. We had lunch plans with another couple, so I tried a little bit harder than usual. No, of course I didn’t shower — but I swept up my hair into a bun and then put on a Fedora, green army jacket, pink sweater draped over super tight jeans and high brown boots. This little number was almost chic for a Sunday in the West Village, but it was borderline. I sort of looked like I belonged in a J-Lo video or perhaps I was auditioning for the next Indiana Jones movie. So the next day, Monday, I had a big meeting at work — my corporate job — and I decided to wear the same outfit. Of course, I didn’t notice how tight the pants were until I had to back away from people and avoid bending over lest I wanted them to see my butt crack. What possessed me to wear my Indiana Jones outfit to work? I’ll never know….but that outfit still remains one of my worst Sunday fashion choices that should have never, never, never been one of my Monday choices.

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