I used to care about my appearance. I did. I used to get dressed up, matched my shoes to my purse, used to look in the mirror, brush my hair, put in my contact lenses, paint lipgloss after lining my lips to make them look fuller, I used to dab on concealer. I used to have the time and energy for such things.
Now, I exclusively wear the mom uniform of yoga pants and crustied t-shirts. My glasses are lazily perched on my nose, making me look like Donald Rumsfeld. Once the kind of person who would get a blow-out before a night’s big event, I am now breaking combs in half trying to get them through the snarly rat’s nest of hair piled atop my head.
I don’t take care of my things, either. My car suddenly has some inexplicable scratches and dents on the doors. My iphone’s camera lens is so dirty that all my photos look like a dream sequence.