On Visible Brush Strokes.

Adhering to a friend's demands, I am now revealing to the world what a hot mess I really am.

Growing up, I was always told that "I am painting a masterpiece, so hide the brush strokes." I was never to leave the house without brushed hair, mouthwash-ed teeth, and "natural" makeup (because green eyeshadow is for whores). The justification for taking all of this trouble was that "I was never sure who I would meet". And, true story, this advice still rings in my ears.

That is to say, it echoes somewhere deep in the recesses of my foggy brain as I haphazardly tie my dirt hair into a ponytail. and chew a piece of gum to hide the bagel breath. Because what I have learned in my adult life is that I am in fact painting a masterpiece. But it is much more like a Monet. Because from a polite distance I look perfectly groomed. It's only when you peer closer (or stare long enough) you see that I am in fact riddled with brush strokes. and bruises. and scrapped knees. and the occasional coffee stain (because although they have outlawed talking on the phone while driving, they have yet to tear my coffee out of my caffeine-greedy fingers.)

Because here is the crux of the matter: who has time for perfection? And isn't it a little comforting to know that I have better things to do than straighten my hair every morning? like sleep? As it stands, today I am less of a Monet, and more of say, a Jackson Pollock, where the only thing you see is the brush strokes. I am at work with skinless knees and shins (owing to my inability to stay vertical, and a story for another day), a weird bug bite on my arm, and serious under eye circles (they look a lot like those "before" pictures in infomercials that you are sure are doctored). All of which are a testament to a fantastic weekend. And I'm totally ok with that. I always liked modern art better anyway.

So on the off chance that I meet the president today, he should also know I forgot to put on deodorant.