Frump

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!