Two years ago I spent the bulk of my time freelance writing. I wrote for nine hours a day and got a lot done. The downside to this is that there were whole days when I didn’t even look in the mirror and once went three days without talking to another person in real life. (That was an adventure, I wasn’t quite sure how loud my actual voice would be when I used it. Those people at Starbucks don’t even blink, not even when a crazed looking woman with a very slow netbook stirs herself to get coffee. Someone did admire my rubber ducky pajamas.)
Now I have an equal but opposite experience. I do leave the house a lot. This week I am working at four different locations on three different jobs. This is pretty normal for me this school year, and I am starting to notice that either people aren’t looking directly at me or are so dazzled by my brilliant personality that they don’t notice that my hair is doing something either askew or stupid and that one of my shoes is scuffed because I rolled my ankle getting out of the car and I had to leap to save my glasses/coffee/phone/ notebook.
Today I am grateful for this cloaking device that I apparently have because in addition to the stupid things that I usually do, my skin is starting to rebel. I feel terrible for complaining because I have won the genetic lottery, skin wise, and I have very few wrinkles.
That being said, my eyes have been rejecting all make-up and flinging it on to my glasses.
And I have a clogged pore thing on the corner of my lip. It kind of looks like a cold sore, but its not (No really it’s not.)
I can not tell you the joy I feel when I glance in the mirror and have Walk-Of-Shame-Eyes and what looks like Whore-Lip.
Did I mention that I looked in the mirror AFTER I finished teaching at a Christian School.
No one said anything.
I’m not sure if people are very nice or acting like they can’t see the obvious because they are a) nice or b) terrified that today may be the day when I completely snap and they want to have a bit of a head start.
It may actually be the latter.
I have had the opportunity to have actual conversations with adults. During these conversations, I have paused mid-conversation and said, “Yes, I know, I can hear myself.” This is usually prompted by look that is a blend of amazement, confusion and mild terror.
Things I have heard myself say include
“I’m not made of scripts.”
“I’m only going to ask about the face not the flipper.”
“It’s a hard old world on the pandas.”
“There’s a kitty in my way that I need to move, thus move, cat, get out the way.”
“Did that used to be cheese?”
And it’s only Monday.