Or a drive-by posting as the case may be. BTW, that’s one of my favorite lines in a movie and I’m not sure exactly why.
Anywho, back here at Command Center Mommy, it’s conference day so I only have a few minutes before I have to scrape the baby goo off of me and work up the courage to load my 18 pound menace into the pouch to lug on the subway. No wait, forget about the subway. Try up and down the subway stairs. Yeouch.
Technology Free Thursday was fantastic. I didn’t get any planting done, but there was a minor miracle. Last night, as I sat on the couch nursing my son, I looked around the apartment and felt…good. As in, it looks good in here. Clean. Tidy. Not perfect, but perfectly acceptable. I do not think I have ever had this feeling about this apartment. There has always been something more to do before I’m satisfied, whereas now, even this morning, there is more to do but I am satisfied with what I have accomplished. Boy howdy is this ever a good feeling.
The big project I undertook yesterday was cleaning out all of the toiletries and cosmetics that are of indeterminate age. See, for about a year (probably the whole of 2005,) I made weekly trips to the Body Shop, Sephora, the drug store, wherever I could. And I bought everything from pedicure sets to miracle stretch mark treatments to hair dye. Tons and tons of it. Enough that this crap had taken over my medicine cabinet as well as the one in C’s bathroom, under his sink, and partially under my sink. And it was compulsive purchasing, as evidenced by the box of hair dye I found that was actually my.hair.color. Like the one on my head. WTF was I thinking?
I was thinking that there was something wrong with me. That I was somehow lacking because I’m not the type to wax and primp and preen and mani/pedi and all that rot. That I wasn’t a ‘real woman’ because I didn’t spend 6 hours a day on my beauty regime. And so, as I hauled all of these boxes and bottles and tubes out of their various hidey-holes, I started to feel pretty shitty, because there’s still a voice in the back of my head that has been conditioned to believe that if you’re a girl, you’re supposed to like to make yourself pretty. And I’m just not like that. I mean, I like to dress up as much as the next person, but not every day.
And so a lot of it went into the trash. Expired make-up, creams that had been opened, used once, and left for dead 3 years ago. Hair dye I couldn’t even remember buying. Nail polishes that had separated. Two goddamn bags’ worth. Holy freaking waste.
The nice thing about it, though, is that after I got all teary about what a basketcase I had been, and subsequently reassured myself that I really have accepted that I am not a frilly girly girl and I’m happier not being, I organized all of my make-up brushes and set up a cosmetics case with pedicure stuff for Lucy. I arranged all of the newer lotions and the like that have been given to me so that I can actually use them. And I bid farewell to the two trash bags and the baggage they carried.
It’s terribly unsustainable both to have made those purchases and to have thrown them away. I’m not proud of the waste, but I’m even less proud of how hard I was on myself. Maybe this is why I was able to finally enjoy the progress I’ve made on the apartment–I do not want to become that woman again, the one who doesn’t think she’s pretty enough (woman enough). Lately I’ve been feeling like I’m not smart enough or motivated enough, and it’s really no better than when I was trying to buy my way to a prettier me. And so I’ll eat the trash figures for the sake of clearing my space of negativity. I think it’s worth every pound.
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