Dressing Down

This isn't just a change of image. I'm tired. Honestly, I think a lot of women are tired.

Tired of sucking our stomachs in for photos. Tired of pretending a bra is a necessary part of our attire. Tired of spending half our lives adjusting straps, checking mirrors, touching up lipstick, and smoothing out those fly-away hairs that never seem to settle.

At some point, you just think, "You know what? I can't be bothered."

So bring out the caftans, the keffiyehs, the abayas, and the elasticated pants. Burn the bras. Snip the thongs. Tie the hair back. Anything synthetic that clings, pinches, rides up, or requires instructions can eff off.

I'm choosing bare feet or flip-flops, Uggs or takkies, because my fascia is acting up and I'm tired of cramps. And can we talk about comfort? I'm all for bare faces and cheeky bare bottoms.

I am not doing a twelve-step skincare routine. I barely have the patience for two steps. Wash. Moisturize. Done.

No more contouring, no fake lashes, or overlined lips. No shaved legs, or manis and pedis, these require commitment levels I reserve for friends and family. And the bags under my eyes? They've seen things, good and bad. 

So, if I look closer to 80 by week's end...Good. It's been a hell of a week.

I've survived disappointments, squabbles, breaking news, bills, and trying to remember where I put my glasses a hundred times. If my face looks tired, it's because I am tired. I’ve already taken two naps today and I still look like a zombie... and that's okay.

And don't get me started on hair.

Forget blow-drying and monthly dye jobs. My hair and I have reached an understanding. It's frizzy. It's free. It's graying. Some days it looks fabulous. Other days it looks like I've been struck by lightning. We move on.

Call me when men are spending thousands of rands a month on touch-ups, waxing, lash extensions, and squeezing themselves into garments that cut off circulation. Better yet, call me when someone convinces them that underwire undies are sexy while their own bits are being crushed.

Until then, I think I'll sit this one out.

The funny thing is, once you stop worrying quite so much about all of this, you realize how much time and energy it all takes.

Hours. Money. Headspace.

And meanwhile, the world is on fire.

There are books to read, young women to encourage, communities to support, causes to show up for, neighbours to help, things to learn, and probably a protest or two to attend. I just don't think the world desperately needs another woman wondering whether her concealer is creasing or her roots are showing.

Maybe it needs women who are paying attention. Women who ask difficult questions. Women who say, "Hang on, that doesn't sound right." Women who are a little less worried about image and a little more interested in changing the world.

So yes, keep the fancy bags and the miracle serums if they genuinely make you happy. No judgment.

But me?

I'm choosing comfort. I'm choosing my old, frayed straw bag I bought in Bali. I'm choosing pjs every chance I get. I'm choosing to spend a little less time polishing the outside and a little more time stewing in the joy that is me.

We can always revise beauty standards later. Right now, I have a whole lot of nothing to do.

And that is sweet.