I left the house to the grocery store wearing faded black work out pants, a black tank top, no bra (I really should wear a bra), a black and white poncho, leopard print flip-flops, and no make-up (no one should ever leave the house with at least mascara). I didn’t care. Until, I was bumped into by a very handsome man in the produce section. I think he was single– No ring! (but these days you really never know).
He smiled at me, and said, “Excuse, me.” Scanned my face, then asked, “Are you okay?”
I said, “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just– you look a little pale,” he answered.
I looked at myself in the mirrored wall behind the produce, and I saw a ghost of myself. Pale. Sad. Broken.
Never in my life would I consider leaving the house looking at least somewhat presentable. My long hair was strands of stringy mess strewn over my shoulders, hidden under a hat. I have beautiful hair, at least I did once. Thank god, I still bathe.
I politely moved on, but it was at that moment that I realized how broken I really am. How much grief has taken its toll. I simply don’t care about myself or how I physically appear to others, and I should. This is not me. My dear mother would be horrified if she saw me in some of the outfits I’ve thrown together, while forcing myself to leave the house for basic necessities. Sadly, this outfit is actually one of the better ones. Granted, leaving the house for groceries is progress considering all I’ve been eating is take-out or delivery, but, I think, I’ve finally had it with feeling tired and malnourished. My mother taught me to be put together, to be neat in appearance, to dress well. I look like a slob and this is a dishonor to her.
Hopefully, next time I leave the house, I will look civilized and not homeless.
My new mantra is to be, “Stressed, depressed, but well dressed.”
What grief outfits have you worn? How bad have you looked? Hopefully, I’m not alone.