Where Whine Meets Wine

Who’s The Woman In My Mirror?

on February 3, 2012

What is it about a new haircut and/or a new color that can make such a difference in the way you feel, and more importantly, the way you feel about yourself? But it does. That is just a fact. Let’s face it, a bad haircut, or a color that does not go with your skintone, can make you camp out indoors for weeks. And that’s what it does to an extrovert, imagine how long it would take an introvert to get out of the house? I’ll tell you, it takes me a looong time. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened very often and it’s been a long time since the last time. But there was a week in college where I refused to take my hat off in any of my classes due to my hair randomly deciding to go tomato red instead of darker brown. Let’s just say, while my sweet Miss E is beautiful with her red-hue, her mama was not meant to rock it. Thankfully, I have a hair magician in the family. Which means, that I occasionally I get a phone call to be a human prop. The amazing Jon English salon downtown Minneapolis likes to keep their stylists on their toes and demands perfection. So one brother gets a playday with the little ones, while I get a day out to get all done up. A fantastic haircut and color later… I love it.

There’s just one problem. You see, people often question my age, and are surprised to learn my age (and how many children I have, or how long I’ve been married). I even got asked who was older of my siblings. And if my pretty boy brother was my twin. Most people think I’m in my early 20s. Therein lies the problem. I think everyone I talk to may be gone on a drinking binge. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. Because when I look in the mirror, I do not see the 21 year old version of me. And unfortunately, that’s what I seem to expect. Every morning I get up and go brush my teeth. And no matter how many time I’ve tried to warn myself not to do this, I inevitably look in the mirror. And somehow, I see someone who looks all of my just-under 30 years, I see a mother of three, a wife of going on 8 years. I do not know where this 21 one year old is hiding, but I’m pretty sure it’s not in my face. And as I look the rest of myself over, I’m pretty sure it’s not there either.

So what exactly do I see? Well, if I’m honest I’ll tell you, it depends on how much sleep I’ve gotten. Thankfully, there’s only been one morning where I looked in the mirror and was truly horrified. This was after a week of baby not sleeping, followed by a weekend where it was just me and the kids (which of course equals even less sleep). I mean, I’ve been sick enough where I looked like death warmed over, but I had never seen myself look so… old, and worn. It was seriously frightening. Thankfully, I haven’t seen whoever she was since then. And I’m hoping she never comes back. Does this all sound a little too aesthetic? I agree. And I don’t usually think that way, or even about it. I am not the girl who gets up hours before leaving the house, so I can be sure to have the perfect outfit, and my hair curled/straightened, and my makeup done. In fact,  I keep my makeup in my purse, because the only time I put any on, is if we’re heading somewhere and hubbyman is driving. Otherwise, I never have the time. Or the care. I am who I am, and I look how I look.

And really, to think back on that 21-year-old girl… it’s a little sad. Right before getting married, I was a little lost, and a lot unhappy. And really, and I mean really, if I have to choose that life (filled with tiny jean sizes, no signs of wrinkles to come, and heartbreak) or this one (filled with being healthy -living healthy, eating healthy, and not weight obsessed-, seeing signs of *crinkles* to come from days filled with laughter, and happiness beyond my wildest dreams)… I think we all know what I’d pick. Obviously, the tiny jeans. Ok, ok, I choose today. I choose a life with my husband who supports me and tells me I am beautiful (and always will be- read this). I choose a life with my wild, funny, snuggley little loves. I choose a life that includes jeans that fit me. (And are defiantly NOT mom jeans!) And a rockin’ new haircut and color.

Huh, this isn’t exactly the post I thought I’d be writing, but, it is what it is. And exactly how did my reflection go from someone who looks like she should be the babysitter to looking like she’s gotta be the mom? Maybe it’s the coffee stains, or the milk on my shirt, or the nutella… geez, I hope that’s nutella…

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