I’m trying to be sensible these days. We operate on a budget, we try to not dine out, and I quit buying Fiji water. Even though it tastes like rain from heaven. Even though I, alone, was probably supporting the entire island’s economy with my water slogging. And it made me feel all rich and fancy carrying around those square bottles.
But now, all that’s changed. I darkened my hair. I need to lose ten pounds. I drive a messy mom car and always forget to pluck my eyebrows. My appearance is becoming slowly mundane and dreary. I went to Target to find myself some new clothes, and thought to myself that those little shirts they sell up in there are pretty darn cute. Tiny little flowers actually affixed to the knit? Capri pants with drawstring waists? Brilliant!
It’s Target, people. I need an intervention.
I used to wear flashy jeans and maintain dark tans. My hair was blond against my long back and I’d cackle with overly-white teeth. Now, I’m lucky to get a pedicure when my mother-in-law comes to town. I’m convinced those Vietnamese ladies are not talking about soap operas but instead laughing about my calloused, dark heels. Maybe I was just being paranoid and they were complimenting my new shirt. You know, the one with the tiny flowers.
I think it’s time for a makeover. And some exercise. Today, I found myself eating a hot dog for lunch. It was organic, but still. No adult needs to be eating a hot dog unless this person is at the ball park drinking a beer wearing a large oversized nerf hand.
Strike that. Under no circumstances should anyone really be eating a hot dog.
I’m sick of feeling self-conscious in tight-fitting t-shirts and feeling like I have frumpy hair. I have great hair. So today, it ends. I washed my car even though a rainstorm is coming. I cleaned out the clutter and went through my house wiping and dusting. I’m going to figure out how to start working out, even if I’m down on the floor doing push-ups to a Jane Fonda video. I don’t think I’ll ease back into the cackling, no matter the condition of my teeth. That just sounds weird and witch-like.
So from this day forward, I’m going to steal back the woman I know is inside of me, aching and yearning to escape. I want to feel strong and powerful again, not lumpy and soft with mouse-brown hair drinking tap water in my kitchen. Where is the glory in that? I might have to take on a part-time job to afford all that fancy water and highlights, but it will be worth it. I’m cleansing.
My two-year-old probably won’t notice the impending change. My husband might. But Fiji certainly will. It’s really all about the island people, after all. I’m doing this for you.
P.S. I have no idea where Fiji is. I should know this, since they inspired my new resolve.
P.P.S. The more I think about it, they don’t give two rips if I’m blond. As long as I buy their water, I could be bald with bad teeth for all they care. That’s disappointing to think about. I thought we had something.
P.P.P.S. I looked it up. Fiji is northwest of New Zealand. As it turns out, they are looking for a tall blond woman with an occasional southern twang to lead their nation into a new and bright economic era. Floral shirts are a plus, but not required. Who knew? Who freaking knew?!
P. . . S. I’m moving to Fiji. Don’t bother to call. I’ll be working out. Or eating a hot dog. One of the two.