Because You're Worth It
I am a slob.
No, really.
A major slob.
An example...I am sitting writing this in 2-year-old jeans (wrong size) and a pretty summer shirt (bleach spills on the sleeves).
For me, this actually constitutes dressing up...I have a visitor coming round.
But if you stopped by unexpectedly (and please don't, it would only embarrass us both), nine times out of 10 I would be in a fetching mix-and-match selected from ketchup stained pyjama bottoms/oversized terry towelling pants/a Topshop vest circa 1996 (three sizes too small)/my hubbie's £3 Primark trackkie bottoms that shrunk in the dryer/his ancient dressing gown/one of various t-shirts he won at fun runs/one of his old work t-shirts (sexy mud brown with concrete stains).
Actually, make that 10 times out of 10.
Just to make sure you have this straight, these are not examples. No, these are pretty much all the options.
Looking at the provenance of most of this exquisite wardrobe, it is actually a wonder my poor husband has any clothes left. And that he hasn't left me, come to think of it.
In fact, these are all items he has judged and condemned as unfit to wear.
I do sometimes dress up. If I go to the store, I put on something slightly better.
Though I tend to keep my head down and pray I don't bump into anyone I know. I once had to hide behind the fish sticks to avoid my old boss.
My personal grooming also leaves a lot to be desired. I mean, I do all the basics. I am clean (mostly), I shave my legs, I cut my toenails.
But it has been a long time since I cracked open the nail polish.
Makeup tends to consist of a swipe of mascara before I go out.
And just don't ask what your bikini line looks like after you go at it with your husband's hair clippers.
I wouldn't recommend it.
And definitely don't tell your husband.
I do make an attempt, sporadically.
I blow-dried my hair. On Valentine's Day.
When I went to my mum's, I took the opportunity to give all my clothes a spin in her Posh Washer. It was great...for the span of about two whole days I could actually make out the colour of my trousers under the cat hair.
It's not even that I don't possess any decent clothes.
I go shopping every so often and buy some lovely stuff. I wear it with pride for a few days, then it all somehow seems to sink to the bottom of the laundry basket where the posh knickers live.
After stewing there for a few months, it gets eaten by those gremlins that munch half the socks, and it's back to the pyjamas until the next shopping season.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want to look this way.
It is truly amazing how much I don't want to look this way.
I sit on the couch and watch the beautiful young things on the telly, and remember how I used to be one of them. I make plan after plan for a radical transformation. But it always comes to nothing.
Why, why, why? I ask myself.
There are several reasons. I shall compile a nifty little list:
1. The Chameleon Complex. People tend to adopt the clothing style that is most common where they live. It isn't conscious, always. But what you see on the street every day tends to be what you pick out to wear.
So when I lived in Leeds, I was a fashion queen.
But now I live in Cornwall. Fleeces, waterproof trousers and walking boots abound. And being covered in mud is completely normal. No one even looks at you strangely at work.
2. I am Intimidated By Fashion. The kids today don't wear the things we did. How do they put those outfits together? Where do they get the money? And why are they all so darned thin?
3. I Just Can't Be Bothered.
Doing anything well takes time.
And I am getting old.
I am more than happy to spend hours and hours trawling websites selling plants, or cushions, or Handy Little Gadgets You Never Knew You Needed. But these days, I simply cannot bring the same enthusiasm to clothes shopping or face masks.
4. I Am A Perfectionist. I don't have the cash to look like a movie star. So why bother? (Honestly, I truly believe this).
5. And this is the main reason...
I. AM. FAT.
Or should that be I Am My Mother's Daughter.
As many of you know, I grew up with a wonderful Mum...who happened to have a serious weight problem. She yoyo-dieted her way through my childhood - 100 pounds on, 100 pounds off - over and over again.
Whenever this happened, we could observe an odd phenomenon.
When Mum was slimmer, or losing weight, she looked fantastic. Really fantastic. She made a huge effort with clothes, hair and makeup. She is, today, by far the most glamorous and good-looking of all her friends.
But when she was overweight, it was a different story.
I can still remember some of her various 'oufits' - much like the ones I now wear round the house. Her bobbly gray trousers and oversized red and yellow t-shirts. Her ski sweatshirt. Her 'curtain trousers' (don't ask). Day in, day out, she wore the same things, not buying new until the old simply fell apart.
Her hair was unstyled except for the most upmarket of events.
Cosmetics bought for Christmas - or even free samples from those snotty makeup women - were always put carefully away, still wrapped, 'for a special occasion'. But they never came back out.
And as a little girl, I watched, and I learned.
And, eventually, faithfully, I adopted my mother's habits, right down to putting away my Christmas cosmetics and forgetting about them.
I, too was saving them for a special occasion. The best special occasion there was. The only special occasion, in fact, that I could imagine.
I was saving them for When I Lost Weight.
And I would bet my bottom dollar my mum was doing the same thing.
So why didn't I just get on and use the bloody sachet of Vosene out of Good Housekeeping?
At the time, I really didn't know. Saving those things was just something I did. But, goodness knows, blogging gives plenty of opportunity for a bit of self-awareness, and I know why now.
I wasn't using that stuff because I knew there was no point.
Why wear my Christmas makeup when I'd just spent the whole of December stuffing my face? A sparkly top and a bit of body cream wasn't going to disguise the great, big, ugly mess that was me.
Nothing was going to.
Because I Was Fat.
I Was Disgusting.
And, unlike all those lovely L'Oreal girls, I Was Simply Not Worth It.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. What a horrible attitude. What a load of absolute b*******.
Hard to change, though. I am still struggling under those beliefs. I am working on it, one thing at a time. But I haven't got very far.
As you can probably tell from my wardrobe.
I can proudly say, however, that this year....drum roll please...I had used up every single little pot of Christmas cosmetics by March.
I am now working on the rest of my look.
Because, if I actually own a nice shirt, maybe I won't say no again the next time someone asks me on a night out.
Maybe I'll go out and feel a teensy, tiny bit closer to OK about myself.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll start to feel I actually have some semblance of a life, spare tyre or not.
My visitor isn't here yet. Who knows, before she arrives I might even slap on a bit of blusher.
Because I'm Worth It.
And, more importantly, I don't want her to think I died.
Love Rach xxx 