This must be from December 2010:
“I have come to (hopefully) my last ob visit; I got up this morning after a sleep in – thank you wonderful husband!! – and put on my soft and comfy (sweat) pants, which use an elasticised belt to keep them up. I also love my cotton cardy, though it is a definite poo brown. I had lofty notions of changing into clean jeans and a shirt that covers my belly, but I didn’t. Now I’m here and the food stains are glaring at me under the fluorescents, boo! When did I start leaving the house looking like this? My skin is almost as lack-lustre as my cardigan, and my hands and hair are definitely those of someone else. I know I brushed my hair this morning, I suppose another shampoo would go hand in hand with that to alleviate the feelings of blergh when I glanced in the rear view mirror before I came inside. The next inevitable step, will surely be that I don’t bother looking in the rear view anymore.”
That would have been just before almost 3yo was born. I have since given away the cardigan but the pants cinch in pretty tightly, and they are the only sweat pants I own, so *hangs head* I still have them. I do glance in the rear view mirror regularly – and not just for traffic or backseat nonsense – but I have given away shampoo, what was I thinking! I use baking soda and vinegar to wash my hair now, and it glows and is so soft, it is in the best condition of my life. I was usually mortified by some of the people in the ob waiting rooms, but perhaps I am small-minded with small-horizons and have had little to no human experience. I guess that boils down to being a snob. My snobbish self would probably look at my uncovered-belly self with dirty hair and scowl or something. I hope I could do it surreptitiously. I don’t do those looks very well, though, the surreptitious ones, I mean. I was sort of called out for it at dinner the other night, when I was listening to glamorous and employed women talk about their sex lives and other deep and meaningful subjects (are there any other?). I apparently had eyebrows that wouldn’t come down, thereby giving away my incredulity. Perhaps I am just not mature enough to take part in risque subjects without being tipsy, or perhaps I’m just a cow.