Yesterday, after my wander in the Dark Wood of the Soul on Friday night, I decided that part of Taking My Life in Hand should involve making more of an effort about how I look. I do this periodically, I call it Being Pretty. I'm not very good at it. But I don't want to turn into the Crazy Dog Lady, so I do what I can to step up the effort.
I went out and got new acrylic nails. I don't know why to me this is the Icon for being Well Tended. But it's just something that speaks to me of the Woman who Cares How She Looks. They're pretty, I must say, if completely unnatural looking. My fingertips still hurt from all the grinding and sanding, but they'll get back to normal in a day or two, and eventually I'll get the hang of using my hands again. See, the fake nails are thick, and you can't pick up things like coins, credit cards or slips of paper from a flat surface with them. They're also filed so smooth that scratching with them is a singularly unsatisfying activity. But these are the drawbacks. The upside is that they are pretty, and hopefully will make my middle-aged hands look a little less like those of a farmer. I have big hands, not very dainty, and getting knuckly and lined as I get older.
Aging is a bitch.
I hit the gym yesterday, as well, determined to make good on all those times I swore I was going to lose ten pounds.
Dressing is hard, too, when I'm trying to be Pretty. I have no real taste, I think. I would be happy in an oversized T-shirt, jeans and sneakers every day. I don't like to dress up and I don't like to dress too girly, so I'm at an immediate disadvantage. For pointers, I go out in public and I look around me to see what the Pretty Girls are wearing.
Well, here's the first problem. The real Pretty Girls are all 20 years younger than I am. So what they're wearing is probably the opposite of appropriate for me. Oh, it's probably what my ex husband is looking for. And no doubt it's what his current girlfriend is wearing. He used to tell me how awful my taste was. He hated certain colors that I gravitate toward, and once (shortly before we were divorced, not surprisingly) actually went through my closet and made piles: the things that I could definitely keep, the things that were negotiable, and the things that simply had to go. Needless to say, some of my favorite things were things that had to go. And the things that could stay were all pretty much things he had chosen, and/or were short and tight.
It's uncharitable to talk about him that way here. But it's a true story. The other truth is that I'm upset because of this new girl in Gray's life. Every time there's someone new he gets.... weird... secretive, strange. And then I find out about the new girl in some way, and she's always at least ten years younger than me... sometimes closer to 20. It makes me feel old, fat and ugly. This whole Pretty thing is partly because of her. And because even Bob told me last week that I "just don't give a shit" about how I look. I don't think he meant it meanly... but it just echoed what Gray used to say over and over. He once told me to "just try not to look like shit." I'm torn between making the extra effort to Be Pretty and just telling them all... the whole masculine gender.... to go to hell and embracing my inner Dog Lady.
So to keep her at bay, for now, at least... I have new nails, and gave myself a pedicure. And I am going to the gym. And yesterday I bought a pretty new shirt. I stopped short of buying one of the frilly ones everyone is wearing. But it does have flowers all over it.
Aging is, as I said, a bitch.
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