When my good friend Tracey took the very brave step of revealing her self – her true, untouched, un-madeup, un-caffeinated, first thing in the morning self – I thought, wow, awesome, so brave, you go girl! Then I muttered something to myself about the virtues of cowardice – Aristotle argued that an excess of courage was, in fact, a vice, and I live by that argument – and maybe something about would shoot myself in the head first and then wandered off to make an espresso.
But mid-coffee – and, yes, I am aware that this may have been the caffeine talking, even though it was Starbucks Decaf Espresso beans that I used – it occured to me: what, exactly, would be the big deal about revealing my morning face to the world? I mean, really – my morning face is not so much different from my afternoon face and my evening face. Sure, it’s maybe a bit more crumply, but here’s the thing: I am a work-at-home mom. I have a two-year old. I am 7-plus months pregnant. I don’t give a shit what I look like anymore.
**Somewhere, in the mists of time, my twenty-year old self (she may, in fact, be in a huddle with all of my previous selves up to and including the self that I was until about the eight-month point of my first pregnancy, at which time I was still wearing pointy-toed heels for fun and spending $50 a tube on Yves St. Laurent Touche Eclat for under-eye circles) is right this very minute shrieking in horror. I believe that she may be screaming something to the effect of didn’t we swear to take ourselves out back to be shot if we ever gave in to frump? Didn’t we swear that we would NEVER EVER become Slovenly Mom? Didn’t we swear to always, always care about what we looked like and to never, ever give up on make-up and straightening irons and Bliss products and… BOOM (*twenty-year old head exploding*)**
I’m sorry for the loss of the esteem of my vain-glorious former selves, but it’s true: the aesthetics of hair and make-up and fashion have slid to the very rock-bottom of the list of things that I am currently worrying about. I mean, I’m not a total frump-monster – I manage to get out of the yoga pants before going anywhere other the grocery store, and I do, occasionally, brush my hair – but still. If you look at me first thing in the morning, and then again mid-afternoon, I think you’ll find that the one state is virtually indistinguishable from the other, save for, perhaps, and I do stress perhaps, a change of clothes.
As I said, I just don’t care. I’m too tired and busy to care. Beyond the minimal task of ensuring that I don’t terrify my husband or alarm the neighbours, I’ve just stopped working on my appearance in any concerted way. And, for the most part, for now, I’m happy that way.
Which brings me to the following point: why not share my Self-Portrait of Truthiness with the world? It’s not like its anything you wouldn’t see if you stopped by coffee (which, would you? I could use the distraction. And if you do, could you bring some chocolate croissants? kthx). So, herewith – The Untouched, Unedited, NSFW Self-Portrait of Truthiness:
Self-Portrait of Truthiness. Behold, and be afraid. Or encouraged. Whichever.
I dare you to do it too.
Also, if you’re interested… I’m singing the eco-praises of Bob The Builder here, still angry about that abortion protest here, and even angrier about Dr. Laura here. Also, had a bit of a rant about Christina Aguilera and why everybody obsesses about celebrity post-partum weight-loss, here. Which, yes, been there, ranted that, but still. I’m nothing if not a parasite on my own issues.