I am a trailer trash gal and proud to admit it. I say this with the utmost affection for trailer-dwellers everywhere because yes, that is who I am. As I type this blog and sip my Pinot Grigio on a sunny September Saturday evening … okay, it’s almost evening but hey, it’s the weekend … I am gazing out the window of my charming trailer at all the other charming (and some not-so-much) trailers in my charming lakeside trailer park. And I am happy.
Sure the wine helps and so does the sunshine but what I really love is the freedom. The freedom from dressing up, wearing makeup, blow-drying my hair or donning high heels. It’s definitely a cut-off jeans and flip-flops vibe and I am rocking it to the fullest, with nary a spec of Cover Girl covering my face. On my, but I do love this kind of freedom! And to think that this freedom actually arrives with old(er) age when what also arrives is more that maybe needs covering … is perhaps a bit ironic and a lot surprising.
In my twenties I used to wear full make-up to go to the hairdresser’s. I mean, come on, who wants to sit in a chair staring at themselves for two hours with naked pores and squinty eyes staring back? I loved dolling up and heading out on the town. I could run in stilettos, I washed  my hair every day and mascara was my best friend. I wore it to the mall, to work, to school and I’m pretty sure sometimes to bed. I did not leave the house unadorned. Ever.
Now it’s a different story. I do not wear makeup to get my hair cut. I prefer flip-flops to high heels and mascara is for special occasions only. Here, not only in trailer-trash land but in cottage country in general, I am entirely content to go au naturel day in, day out. And this has been my MO since forever. I have never come to my little corner of paradise with cosmetics in tow. Ever. It’s almost like an unwritten rule – when you’re at Hope Bay you keep it real.
So real, in fact, that several years ago, when back in “the city” I performed a benefit concert in full regalia, a few of my cottage friends showed up in support. When they saw me, the sound of collective jaws hitting the floor was deafening. Because these kind and lovely folks had never ever seen my face made up … ever. I’m sure it was almost a bit of a freak show.
Kind of like that TV show Survivor (yes, I used to watch it). You observe castaway shenanigans for weeks as the participants become more tanned, more disheveled, decidedly slimmer and completely natural (save for whatever they applied permanently before showtime). And then you get to the grand finale and they’re all done to the nines. Hair, make-up, everything we typically expect from celebrities except to me these “ordinary” people now look like aliens! Weirdos. Wax museum rejects. I honestly appreciated their natural beauty so much more when they were stranded. “Go back!” I scream to my TV.
They never listen.
But now, in my (ever-encroaching) dotage I get to listen … to myself. And odd as it seems, myself is the most comfortable in myself’s skin than myself has ever been. Even when I was younger, thinner, unwrinkled, naturally blonde and, well, YOUNG … I was never comfortable (enough) in my skin. Yet now I am. If I want to wear a bikini, I do. If I don’t want to wash my hair for three days, I don’t. I often head to the market in nothing but lip gloss. I mean, yes, I wear clothing but my face is my face. Wrinkles and brown spots be damned.
It’s not that I’m not vain. I’m quite sure I still am. It’s more that I now trust more fully that any real beauty I possess shines out through my eyes. And those baby blues don’t need glitter and kohl for that to happen.
So now it really is Saturday evening in the trailer park. I hear music, dogs barking, people laughing, chain saws humming and my guy grunting (he’s been hard at work outside all day). This same guy who never suggests I wear makeup, lose weight, gussy up or cover up. He is happy with me when I am happy with me.
I may never own a waterfront cottage, I’m pretty sure my size 8 days are over and I’m equally sure these wrinkles ain’t going nowhere. But I am very happy being trailer trash tonight. Pretty soon I’ll trade my cut-offs for long jeans, throw on a sweater and serve dinner by the fire. It’s a beautiful evening so there may even be some star-gazing involved.
I am happy. Reality can be good. Freedom is the best.
And being trailer trash is the bomb!