The ever growing amount of handsome men I'm encountering on my afternoon walks with Roxy has made me realize I have to start dressing better.
What can I say? I just don't have the time. As the afternoon rolls around it's deja vu as I realize I have just 30 minutes before I have to start cooking dinner.
In the meantime, the son is screaming, "How long before we eat?", the dog is pressing her two legs together, sporting a look that screams, "I'm going to pee in the next 5 seconds," and the significant other is trying to slice through a frozen piece of pound cake with a butter knife.
Is this the time to color coordinate an outfit and throw on Jimmy Choo's?
I think not.
And so, with the intent of taking care of business faster than Roxy's pee hits the rug, I'm out the door wearing "whatever" I threw on in the morning.
Need I say that "whatever" entails what I was able to scrounge together at 6am using only 50 percent of my conscious state of awareness?
God, I'm sleep deprived.
Today's "outfit du jour" consisted of pajama pants (I call them loungewear) purchased during the Reagan administration, a J Crew t-shirt circa 1980 in the ugliest shade of puce, and a half-broken pair of yellow O'Neill flip-flops.
Yes people, I know it's fall but I just don't have the energy to do a recon mission and identify where the "autumn" shoes are hiding.
To top the outfit, I donned a pink plaid poncho that would have made Ugly Betty (before her quasi transformation) proud.
Out the door I went, and to hell with the consequences.
However, this laissez-faire attitude came to a screeching halt after encountering eligible bachelor #1, hottie married-but-who-give's-a-rat's-ass #2, and ooh-honey-smokin'-hot #3.
Be still, my heart.
By this time, I was so mortified, I was searching in the bushes for any item that could be used as a cutting tool that could transform my poncho into a ski mask.
Insert "What did we learn today?" here.
And so, it is with great sheepishness that I admit to you and myself, that it's time to rethink the schizophrenic wardrobe choices.
Note to self: Write Charlize Theron and inform her that her character in "Sweet November" will no longer be the source of inspiration for my inner fashionista. And that she was being paid to wear the crazy get ups. And more importantly, that because she's so beautiful, she could wear a burlap sack and still look magnificent, but that sadly, this isn't the case for most of us.
Because most of us have to put in a little effort in order to look presentable. But I digress.
What I did learn today is this: We should make the effort to look good.
Not just because we might encounter GQ's November cover, but because we owe it to ourselves to put ourselves first…before the dog, before the grown up "children" and before our spouse.
I say it's damn time we invest a little time on our person, our appearance, our emotional well-being, and mental state.
So next time you're headed out the door in an outfit that resembles something that would make a rodeo clown proud, just remember…You're worth the time it takes to make yourself look good.
Because most of the time, looking good means feeling good.
Forget all that crap you've read about how clothes don't make the monk.
While it may be true that a badly dressed monk is still a monk, it's also true that a badly dressed monk is still that, a badly dressed monk.