The post about how I seem to be that rare exception to the statistical probability of having someone show up at the house on the ONE.DAY I choose to:
(pick one or a combination of the following)
-stay in my pajamas
-neglect my hair and make-up
-not clean up dinner and dishes from the night before
-not see the nasty piece of dark-colored food wedged in my front teeth when I greet them with my widest smile
Doesn't matter. As soon as I decide to defy the hygiene routine, THAT's the day I will meet new people and help them form fantastic first opinions about how well-groomed I am. Take this morning for example.
I hurried right over to my parents' house to help my mom with some Spring cleaning. (Do YOU wash your walls twice a year?... I sure don't. But after today I will probably at least THINK about how I don't wash my walls maybe twice in the year.) She asked me when I was coming.
Mom: Jenny, are you still coming today?
Mom: Well what time do you think you'll get here?
Me: I'll come whenever you want me to.
Mom: Umm..., the earlier the better.
Me: Okay. As soon as I get the last child on the bus, I'll drive over.
Me: I'm on my way!
Me: I noticed when I was talking to you earlier, that you were running the bath. That means you're all spruced up, smelling nice and looking beautiful, right?
Mom: Yes... (she does love her baths)
Me: Well--refrain from judging when I arrive, because you're getting me as I am. I took my shower last night and slept on wet hair. I put on my best work clothes (read: ratty and paint-splattered). I have banana breath.
Mom: (giggling) Don't worry! Just come. (and) Banana breath?!? You don't even LIKE bananas.
Me: Oh... I just passed the Agway Store. Do you need chicken feed?
Mom: YES! Please. We're all out. (Dad in the background: forget the feed. let them die.)
Me: I'm turning around.
Only then did I realize that I was offering to enter a retail establishment in my current state of un-groom-ed-ness. I kept my eyes low and purchased the pellets. There were two men in the store. I did happen to sense that I got the sideways glance from the employee who was not busy at the computer taking my order. Call it paranoia, but if it were ME behind the counter, I'd probably have given someone with such fantastic bed-head a glance or two as well. The rest of the drive included some finger-wetting in my bottle of water, so that I could dampen my bangs that were standing at attention in about six different directions. Not even kidding. It was some good hair. I wasn't TOO worried about it, though, because I was about to get to work with the soapy bucket and some rags, and who cares what you look like when you're wielding a vacuum and moving furniture?
When I arrived at the old Homestead, I saw a vehicle in the driveway that I did not recognize. Yep--Cousin Murphy. Inside I found my mom's perfectly primped Visiting Teacher, sitting across from her on the couch, getting in a quick message before the cleaning lady showed up. They motioned for me to join them. Oi vey. So I sat there awkwardly trying not to pat my bangs and smooth my sweats while they finished up. Honestly. Why does showering the night before EVER seem like a good idea to me?
It was then on to cleaning and lunching (which was pure comfort and joy. really.) and it quickly became time to go. Except. Right then I got a reminder phone call from Mister Dub. Bless him.
MD: Hey--did you remember that you were going to pick up that stuff for me in Marlboro?
Me: Oh right. I'm going to do that on the way home.
Then he proceeds to give me directions. The stuff is going to be in a Corporate Office in a nearby Business Park. I need to go to the front desk and ask for so-and-so.
In my head, right then, I debated the scenario where I go to the plush building, ask for so-and-so and introduce myself as Martha Frump--Jenny's painter, and I'm so sorry she couldn't be here herself, but she got tied up. In an important meeting (with her shower).
But I didn't. Because Cousin Murphy (and my conscience) wouldn't let me.
I hope Ms. so-and-so's stellar impression of Dub hasn't slipped a notch.
But I wore comfortable clothes ALL day.
I taught a piano lesson.
I taxied kids around.
I made rolls.
I went to book club.
And I smiled a lot.
And life is good (especially when you're comfortable) and because really, if you can't let-go once in a while and just go about the business of life in paint-speckled sweat pants and a messy pony tail, where's the adventure? I might just keep them on and call them pajamas.