This morning I threw on a comfie shirt which happened to also be a bit sporty, grabbed some shorts, threw hair in pony tail, glanced in mirror and gasped. Not the “oh my gosh I’m looking so fab I’m going to give Heidi Klum a run for her money” gasp. It was the “what in the hell was I thinking when I bought this top?” type of gasp.
Oh yes, now I recall. My husband thought I’d look cute in some sporty clothes. We were browsing through the sport shop at the Legends Shopping Centre (he was browsing, I was begging to be released to go next door to BCBG).
Every time we go to that shop he says something like, “you should get some nice sneakers and some Adidas shirts…blah blah blah…they would look cute on you”.
I’ll admit that my Adidas t-shirt is cute-ish…only because the word Adidas is written in pink, flowing handwriting. And it must have been hand sewn by tiny little silk worms in a tiny little shop somewhere exotic and faraway, because it is so amazingly soft and comfortable.
However…let’s not forget the GASP scene earlier. This is just not “me”. I no longer play sports or do anything to exert myself beyond a shopping marathon or chasing my littlest monster when he shoots out the door, naked (we’re potty training, sort of).
Without a valid reason to wear said sports attire, I don’t see the point in putting myself through it. My friends know that I don’t work out and that the only other reason I’d run is if a mugger grabbed my Prada – and only then would I ask for the purse back and let said mugger have all the other contents (take the keys to my minivan, sure. Have fun with that).
I spent all of my adolescent and college years in sports. I was a gymnast for as far back as I can remember. I was stronger than most of the boys. Remember that episode of Friends where they talked about Monica being freakishly strong? That was me. I helped our friends move furniture – well, I moved the dresser up three flights of stairs while the guys emptied cans of beer. I did cheerleading, track (running under protest of course), flag football, etc. I’m done being as strong as the boys and nearly as fast. I don’t need to look like I just came from the gym in my matching velour sweat suit. I certaily do NOT wish to move any more furniture, EVER!
So why the hell don’t I go change out of my Adidas shirt and put on something pink and bedazzled with swarovski crystals and stop whining? Hmmm? Good question.
Before I go, I suppose I should give a moral to my soap box moment so as not to waste an opportunity to enlighten you.
Be who you are comfortable being. How ’bout that for deep? HOWEVER, I say so with a caveat: just because I say comfortable does not give premission to be a slob. Comfortable, clean and put together, please. Your t-shirt does not have to be borrowed from your husband. It should fit your fabulous figure. If you must wear those hideous, $1 flip flops out in public, please at least make sure your toenails are decent. But by all means, get your comfie butt to the next Haute Market shopping event and let me help you find a little something that is comfie but still makes you look like a girl. 🙂