Now that the kids are in school I’ve resolved to get my flabby body in shape along with my flabby brain. I dressed to go to the gym this morning instead of putting on my suburban mom uniform (solid-colored t-shirt with khaki or denim Capri pants). I know that if I’m not properly dressed for working out when I leave the house in the morning, the chances of actually making it to the gym that day are miniscule.
Ordinarily I don’t wear make-up when going to work out. Now that I’m hitting the gym directly after dropping the kids off at school, however, I feel compelled to make myself less repellant. Why?
It’s the women. I talk to at least half a dozen of them every time I’m near the school, and there’s an undying part of me that doesn’t want to look like a slob around my peers.
I can trace it back to summer camp. It’s 1985, and I’m at an all-girls’ camp. You would think the absence of boys would mean the morning toilette for the girls would be brief.
You would be wrong.
Every morning was a jostle in front of the mirrors. Every morning our counselor Suzy would rise before the rest of us to heat her curling iron and painstakingly curl under her silky brown locks.
And every morning she missed one little section in the back. No one ever told her. I waited all summer to see if she’d make it a day without missing that section. She never did.
So back to this morning. Below, observe the outfit I was wearing:
As you see, I am not one of those suburban cougar-types all beautiful in their yoga outfits and perfectly coiffed hair. The look I’m going for is more of a Hey-World-I’m-About-to-Work-Out-So-Forgive-My-Sloppiness look. With a little make-up thrown in for good measure. And the chocolate? That’s real. I accidentally got some on my drawing.
My darling, precious five-year-old angel hereafter referred to as TG (for The Girl) took one look at me in my ensemble and said, “Mom,” in her sweetest little voice, one that says I love you so much and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, BUT…
“Mom, why are you wearing those clothes?”
“I’m going to the gym after I drop you off.”
“But those are your running clothes.”
“I know. I’m going to run at the gym.”
“But mom, you’re not going to be running at school.”
There you have it. Three days into Kindergarten, and she’s already ashamed of me.
Categories: The Kids
Flabby Brain 
Perhaps if you wore more brightly colored and less matchy-matchy clothes (such as a boob top with the Krav-Maga pants) mini-me might not protest. Oh, but you’d also have to add in some mismatched and crazy socks along with your shoes on the wrong foot.