As I was dressing for work this past Monday, it occurred to me that since Friday evening I had worn nothing but pyjamas (for lounging, sleeping, hanging out) and yoga pants (so as not to walk the dog in pyjamas, although I did give it real consideration).
Seriously … I never put on a dress or a pair of jeans or even some fancy (yet still comfy) leggings. I’m pretty sure I washed my hair (once) and I probably brushed it a time or two but not one iota of makeup touched my face. Not between Friday evening and Monday morning.
What a weekend!
And then it occurred to me (Monday morning is big for epiphanies) that middle age is just so darned different than wanton youth. Because back in my wanton youth I liked nothing more than to get all slicked up on the weekend and go out on the town to strut my stuff. I loved making up and dolling up and getting bejewelled and besparkled. Even in the early days of this middle age (yes, I’ll be here awhile) I still enjoyed knowing that I could ramp it up. Maybe even turn a few heads.
Now I reckon the heads will turn when I finally do walk the dog in my pyjamas.
But this past weekend was truly one of the best ever. There was no stress, no driving, no socializing and no mascara. My beau, the dog and I ate in (oh how I love cooking in PJs!). We watched movies. We worked a bit around the house. We walked the trails (in pants) and we drank some wine. All without lipstick, high heels or perfume.
And you know the best part? Not once did I not feel beautiful. Not once did I look into my 10X magnifying mirror (ouch!) and think Damn, girl, put some powder on. Cover up that rosacea and those wrinkles and those silly little brown-spot thingies which are apparently screaming YOU’RE OLD! Not once did I succumb to insecurity and doubt and even powder my (hello monstrous pores) nose.
Nope, I did not.
You know why? Because I felt great and even better, my beau made me feel great. He made me feel beautiful and desirable and loved all weekend long. Even without makeup. Even without my former size 6 body. Even without youth, flawless skin (okay, I never had that) and a face that doesn’t need ironing.
And that, my friends, is a REAL man.
I think I’ll keep him.
And if you happen to stop by this weekend bring wine. And slippers. Because I’ll probably be in my pyjamas.