I had to take Max to the vet yesterday. Max is a big dog and he sheds like mad, so I wasn't about to get all dolled up to go to the vet.
Audrey and I dropped him off, and ran a couple of errands. I had on a headband, and no makeup. Jeans, a tshirt. Grubby. Whatever.
I hate it when you read "and she didn't have on a stitch of makeup, yet she looked radiant" because that is just never gonna be me, and secretly, I think it's bullshit. Not many of us are blessed with porcelain complexions and rosy cheeks, with perfect bedhead hair--naturally. Oh, sure, I kid myself, and yesterday was no exception, I rolled my eyes at my reflection and said "good enough" as I went about my business.
Hoping all the while to not run into anyone I knew, because you know, the second you look like you just got back from the "Survivor" set, you run into some old friend who looks like she just had a spa day and twelve hours of sleep.
No, the someone I knew that I ran into was my husband. He came home for lunch, just after I'd picked up Max at the vet. It was 90 degrees, and I was in the garage, vacuuming up the one billion white fine dog hairs that Max left behind in the van; along with the detritus of four children who seem to think that my van is just a halfway house for all the trash and dirt that falls out of their pockets and backpacks. I even found the drying flower buds of an ocotillo. (where did that come from?)
I'm just glad he didn't drive up while my butt was hanging out the back of the van, as I was in a most unflattering pose trying to use a lint brush to pick up the really stubborn hairs. It's not like that kind of attention to detail matters, it's just that I was at the point where it was me or the dog hair, and I wanted to WIN.
He came in, we chatted, he had lunch, and he was about to leave. I still had more errands to run, so <and here it comes, you'd think I'd learn> I asked him, as I passed a hand over my<I'm sure> red-faced visage, "Am I presentable?" when I knew I should have asked "How scary am I?"
He hesitated, for a second, and he said, "well, you might want to go do some of that makeup stuff." Spoken like a true professional husband. Once again, backed into the corner by my vanity, and really, how do you answer that? I knew I was scary. I wasn't angry. But I sarcastically said, "gee, thaaanks."
"You asked. And if you went out like that, I can just hear you now, when you tell me later, 'people were staring, how could you let me go out like THAT?' so I told you."
"Dude, don't get so defensive. It's okay. I know. Thank you."
Just like a professional husband, he kissed me goodbye, anyway. He knows better.
And I skipped the errands, and took a shower instead.
I felt better. I smelled better. And I was serene.
Dog hair? What dog hair?