When I got married, I felt pressured to turn into the perfect wife — one who cooks gourmet meals, keeps a spotless home, and looks damn good 100% of the time, both in body and fashion — even though that’s not at ALL the person my sweet husband married. My new-found Pinterest addiction and my perusal of countless new and trendy fashion/homemakey blogs have done nothing but worsen that pressure. Have you seen this? There are about a hundred thousand fashion/homemakey blogs out there touting the idea that You, too, can be a fashionista! And a stay at home mom! And a Crafty McCraftsALot! And be perfect at all of those things! Just look how easily I do it with my $3,000 SLR camera!
I think I’m starting to break under this pressure. I’ve regressed. You’ll notice that I’ve stopped trying to blog about my home or food preparations or fashion choices. I’ve retreated into a dark cave of blog-solitude where I merely write about things that piss me off about society versus the things I’d love to work on concerning myself. By doing that, I’ve created an environment where it’s completely safe for me to fail at all of these things without each and every one of you reading about it. But yep, I’m failing. Here’s how:
- Dan does all the cooking and most of the cleaning. Happily, I might add.
- My workout routine has all but vanished since tearing my ACL and becoming pregnant (but hey, the occasional dance class and the weird prenatal yoga DVD I have are at least giving me some peace of mind for the moment. That, and the fact that at 17 weeks I’ve only gained 7 pounds.)
- And my fashion sense? My “style,” if you will? Ha. Well. I wish I could say I have one. But I really don’t. At the moment, for example, I’m wearing brown sandals with a black striped cardigan. Yep. I know this is wrong. But I’m doing it anyway because I just don’t care.
It wasn’t until I began drowning myself in all these trendy blogs and the black hole that is Pinterest that I really became concerned with this. Here’s what’s been going on in my brain:
Crap. I don’t know anything about fashion. I’m not a real girl. I’m not a good wife. And now I’m pregnant! I’m going to be that embarrassing mom! The one who dresses frumpy all the time! My kid is already hating me for this! But why doesn’t it come easily to me? Why don’t I look at things on hangers in stores and put outfits together? Why can’t I do it? Am I deficient? Did I miss out on some lady fashion gene?
It’s sad that I panic about these things while there are children in Rwanda who die before they’re three. But alas, I do. I panic about my appearance so much so that on more than one occasion, I’ve walked into my closet and thumbed through all 100 of my t-shirts and my eyes have welled up with hot tears.
I must look so stupid!
Well. Maybe I do. You know what, though? Maybe it doesn’t matter.
My friend Nathan (who also happens to be a middle-namer like me, shout out!) did an experiment where he wore the same shirt for 365 days. Granted, Nathan isn’t a girl awash in a sea of trendy wife/mom blogs, but he is a person who recognizes the importance society puts on outward appearances. So, without telling many people, he conducted a little social experiment. (You can read about Nathan’s experiment here.)
Spoiler alter: he lived.
Okay. So maybe I’m overreacting a little bit. Maybe the world will continue spinning if I wear t-shirts and jeans. Maybe it’s not the apocalypse of I don’t have the time to curl my hair in the morning or coordinate patterns (is that what you do with patterns? Coordinate them? I don’t even know.) Maybe life will go on, even if I choose to wear the same shirt for 365 days.