How come I can look like a total slut in this re-vamped picture (thanks Jobthingy, and the real one is in the post before this one)...
... And yet be oddly proud of that fact?
Seriously, now. I'm a mom to three kids. I should not enjoy looking like a skank. I should be embarrassed and never let this picture see the light of day. I should berate my friend for trying to sexify my pure self.
I should, but I won't because it makes me see some gorgeousness in myself I don't normally see.
My time for caring whether or not I'm attractive should have left about 12 years ago, when my hooha stretched wide enough to let out a 10 pound watermelon, and my hair was matted so badly during the 48 hour labour that I had a macho warrior top knot.
Sexy left me a long time ago. I waved goodbye to it with a baby to my engorged breasts and many extra pounds in my bum. For years I consoled myself in bags of Oreos and focused on my growing family (and thighs). I stopped thinking about shades of lipstick or the grey creeping into my hair. I stopped thinking of myself as anything but den mother to the gremlins.
Oreos make everything better, just in case you were wondering. They are a super food.
But, now we're done having babies. We're starting our transition out and into the next chapter of our lives. Our eldest is about to turn twelve, which makes me really old, right?
Right.
No, wait. That's wrong. I'm thirty-two. Something tells me I'm not over the hill just yet. Maybe I have a few more years left in me to try and look hot. Maybe I can start going to bars and wearing pleather and animal patterns as I flirt with the 20-year-old college students. Or, better yet, I could ditch my husband, shack up with a cabana boy, get a personal trainer, leave the heartbroken cabana boy for the personal trainer, leave that guy for a millionaire, move to Florida and drive a sports car to my Botox appointments.
Or not. That sounds like a lot of work. I think I'll just let people mess with my pictures and maybe lose a few more pounds. I don't have the commitment to be a cougar. I can't even blog every day for crying out loud.
Speaking of blogging, Jobthingy and I had a blast at the blogger breakfast. I even broke anonymity and wrote my actual name under 'The Maven'. I felt like a rebel! Well, not really, but I like to sound badass whenenver possible. I met some cool chicks, like Alison, Nat, Meanie , Zoom and the awesome Xup (although I didn't get a chance to chat with her as much as I would have liked - there were a lot of us and she's even more social than I am, if you can believe that)
There were others as well but I have to find their blogs. That involves work and I think I just finished talking about how lazy I am. I'll get there later in the week. I just finished 30 minutes of pilates and nearly an hour of power walking. I earned the right to slack tonight.
One thing I did notice is that there are some very attractive bloggers out there. I guess there's hope for me yet! Who knew people who spend time chronicling their lives in front of a monitor could be so beautiful? How much karma did they have to use up for that, and where can I find some more?
Hey, if anyone comes up with real life Photoshop could they give me a call? Until then I'll lounge happily in attractive mediocrity and let Jobthingy make me prettier. It's a good life, this one.
... And yet be oddly proud of that fact?
Seriously, now. I'm a mom to three kids. I should not enjoy looking like a skank. I should be embarrassed and never let this picture see the light of day. I should berate my friend for trying to sexify my pure self.
I should, but I won't because it makes me see some gorgeousness in myself I don't normally see.
My time for caring whether or not I'm attractive should have left about 12 years ago, when my hooha stretched wide enough to let out a 10 pound watermelon, and my hair was matted so badly during the 48 hour labour that I had a macho warrior top knot.
Sexy left me a long time ago. I waved goodbye to it with a baby to my engorged breasts and many extra pounds in my bum. For years I consoled myself in bags of Oreos and focused on my growing family (and thighs). I stopped thinking about shades of lipstick or the grey creeping into my hair. I stopped thinking of myself as anything but den mother to the gremlins.
Oreos make everything better, just in case you were wondering. They are a super food.
But, now we're done having babies. We're starting our transition out and into the next chapter of our lives. Our eldest is about to turn twelve, which makes me really old, right?
Right.
No, wait. That's wrong. I'm thirty-two. Something tells me I'm not over the hill just yet. Maybe I have a few more years left in me to try and look hot. Maybe I can start going to bars and wearing pleather and animal patterns as I flirt with the 20-year-old college students. Or, better yet, I could ditch my husband, shack up with a cabana boy, get a personal trainer, leave the heartbroken cabana boy for the personal trainer, leave that guy for a millionaire, move to Florida and drive a sports car to my Botox appointments.
Or not. That sounds like a lot of work. I think I'll just let people mess with my pictures and maybe lose a few more pounds. I don't have the commitment to be a cougar. I can't even blog every day for crying out loud.
Speaking of blogging, Jobthingy and I had a blast at the blogger breakfast. I even broke anonymity and wrote my actual name under 'The Maven'. I felt like a rebel! Well, not really, but I like to sound badass whenenver possible. I met some cool chicks, like Alison, Nat, Meanie , Zoom and the awesome Xup (although I didn't get a chance to chat with her as much as I would have liked - there were a lot of us and she's even more social than I am, if you can believe that)
There were others as well but I have to find their blogs. That involves work and I think I just finished talking about how lazy I am. I'll get there later in the week. I just finished 30 minutes of pilates and nearly an hour of power walking. I earned the right to slack tonight.
One thing I did notice is that there are some very attractive bloggers out there. I guess there's hope for me yet! Who knew people who spend time chronicling their lives in front of a monitor could be so beautiful? How much karma did they have to use up for that, and where can I find some more?
Hey, if anyone comes up with real life Photoshop could they give me a call? Until then I'll lounge happily in attractive mediocrity and let Jobthingy make me prettier. It's a good life, this one.