I’ve felt like my frumpiness factor has been high the last few days. It’s a culmination of a handful of disparate events – all culminating in my feeling old and frumpy:
1. I’ve met a boy. We haven’t gone out, but I’m definitely interested – very interested. And I want him to be interested, too. He’s cute and stylish – and I am feeling neither these days.
2. Our holiday party at the restaurant was on Sunday night. I was engulfed by nubile, perky 20-something servers with flowing bleached hair, party-bright satin dresses hemmed two inches past their crotch and sparkly three inch high heels. (I was wearing my spattered chef’s whites and a sweaty headband to keep my hair out of the food).
3. On the same night, I was called “matronly” and a “MILF” by my fellow kitchen compatriots.
4. My hairdresser called my current grown-out haircut “mom looking”. Needless to say, I have an appointment at Sassoon on Thursday.
5. Tonight is my work holiday party – we need to dress warmly and stylishly. This morning, I spent 20 minutes staring at a pile of bulky, conservative, work-appropriate sweaters – and realizing there wasn’t one stylish one in the bunch.
To combat these feelings, I painted my fingernails bright red. Of course, the fact that my knuckles are scraped raw from an unfortunate carrot and mandoline accident doesn’t help matters any. Ugh!