I am about at the end of the monumental task of packing up a two story home by myself. I will move in less than three weeks. It is Sunday, and I am taking the day off.....read two newspapers all morning (and cut the grass), but will spend the rest of the day soaking in my daughter's pool and letting her wait on me because I, more than anyone, deserve a day off. I'm finding it a little difficult to not pack something, not clean something, not toss something, in short, not do something to facilitate a cross country move.
As I finished reading the NY Times Magazine, I glanced out my (perfectly clean) living room windows and noticed a fabulously healthy specimen of a young women, jogging past with two smallish trotting dogs on leashes. I don't know what annoyed me so much. Her perfectly bouncing blond ponytail. Her spandex running suit. Her athletically appealing form. Her spotless shoes. Don't know. I just wanted to walk outside, push her down on the sidewalk and kick her.
Here's the thing. For two and a half months, I've worked very hard, very diligently, and for the most part very happily, knowing I'm escaping Wisconsin. I've toted, lifted, and dragged more junk then Lamont Sanford ever did in however many seasons his show was on television. I've yanked weeds, washed windows, crawled on the floor with a mini-vac to remove cat hair. I've driven across town a dozen times to unload stuff I don't want, need or ever want to see again (most of it my husband's).
So I put on my swimsuit and looked in the mirror. Oy vey. You would think that all my efforts would have had some effect on my swimsuit physique. Maybe my arms are a little less doughy. Maybe my thighs are a little slimmer. But the rest of me looks pretty much like I looked when we got the call to come to Louisiana -- comfortably aged woman whose clothes are more about fit than style. More about hiding than flaunting. What is it going to take? Well, a time machine, I guess. Or an Olympic sized swimming pool and a daily commitment to spend at least an hour each day being wet. Liposuction, lifestyle lift and breast re-perking. If only I had that kind of money.
Regardless, happy jogger with her dogs isn't such a goddamn big deal. I looked good at thirty too, with minimal effort. Here's the challenge; how will I ever look good when this move is over? Because right now I look tired, under nourished, and as flimsy as one of my cardboard boxes. I need to get my teeth cleaned, my hair cut, my toes pedicured, and a full body massage for at least two hours. Or will I automatically lose ten years off my face escaping the frozen wastelands for the gulf coast?
I bought myself a new Bobbie Brown lipstick and a pair of Clark sandals on the yellow dot table at Boston Store. This will have to be enough for now. It's no image miracle, but it's something.