I'm stylin', baby.
It's 3:50 p.m. and I've just had my shower for the day. (The times at the bottom of these blog posts are screwy, but I'm on track for a new blog in the near future.) Anyway, please allow me to tell you what I'm wearing. And no, it's not khakis. A pink-knit flowered nightgown to my knees, brown fuzzy socks, light blue slippers over my cold feet, and of course, since it's only 3 degrees here in the snow-belt, I've thrown on my black zip-up hoodie sweatshirt. No makeup, wet slicked-back hair, and a ton of Victoria-Secret Vanilla body cream to fight the winter dry skin.
I'm working on a one-hundred word description for my novel, with a looming deadline set by my publisher. And I doubt she gives a rat's patutie what I look like doing it.
Lucky for me, I'm not expecting anybody to come to the door. My husband is working, and I put a pot of spaghetti sauce to simmer on the stove. The house smells like an Italian bistro, I'm clean, and I'm in my element. I don't have to fight the traffic, worry about icy roads, or compete with the pretty 30-something girls in the workplace. I love my job. I love where I work.
I think I'd slit my wrists if I had to wake up at 6 and apply makeup to puffy eyes, go out in the cold only to get stuck in a traffic jam and be late, again, for work. I'm way past watching the clock, clocking in at 8 and out at 5, hoping I can make it home by 6, only to start the madness all over again the next day.
Thank you very much, I'll stick to my pink nightgown, brown fuzzy socks, and clocking out in time to watch American Idol.
What not to wear? Ha! Who cares?
Obviously, not me.
Blessings to you and yours.