Mornings are my time of solitude. I am whole heartedly a morning person, and bask delightfully in these first few hours of the day.
Now, although my love for the morning hours are blatant, you sure wouldn’t know it from the look of me. Every morning I rise with a dishevelled look, complete with the bed head and morning breath. To speak truthfully I look like a wreak.
However it doesn’t really matter because the only human beings to see me at this time are my children and husband. So I never feel rushed to get dressed and ready, usually cleaning up a bit and relaxing before even thinking of attending to myself.
But what happens when a visitor pops over in these early sunlight hours?…Without warning.
I hear the front door open.
Huh, I think to myself, who would be here right now? Must be Jamie coming back for something.
Yes it was my husband; my wonderful, considerate, invincible husband whom decided sloppily, to bring over one of his employees.
It just happened so quickly that I froze. There was nothing left to do, but stand there looking a fool.
“Ohhh helllloooo.” It comes out of my mouth in this outlandish way. The voice that says it, doesn’t even sound remotely like my own, but it is…Just one more thing to feel self conscious about.
I take a look around my home; dirty dishes assault the sink and surrounding area, half eaten food lies on our kitchen island and it is beginning to crust to the counter top, the kids are naked (I’m not sure why) in the living room, mooning this stranger who has just walked in on our day to day life. I am standing there with a stupid grin hoping this disastrous scene doesn’t look as bad as what I think it does.
But the look of my home doesn’t even compare to the state I am in.
My new hair cut, in which I am still getting used to, is flung every which way due to its recent date with a pillow. I have remnants of yesterdays mascara tinted under my eyes which only adds to the bags that are always so prominent in the early parts of the day.
I am wearing cotton style booty shorts…Oh lord it hurts to even type it. Yes I own these short shorts, they are of the stripped variety, and a tad too wide so when I walk around my ass crack is evident.
Wonderful, now I can’t even run away in fear the shorts will fall down and I too will end up mooning this poor girl!
To accompany the booty shorts is a small tank top, pink and lacy (but only lacy around the bottom). It doesn’t make it any better though because it is a bit too small and my gut is hanging out over the stretched waistband of my big cotton shorts only to get caught up in the lace and somehow enunciate the cellulite on my stomach that seemed to appear after the birth of my second child.
But luckily that isn’t the worst part of this shirt. The worst part, is that I am not wearing a bra. You see, I have never had big boobs, even when I was nursing I maxed out at a B cup.
Then you ask, ‘well what could possibly be the problem then without having a bra on?’
I will tell you my friends, I have this afflicting condition that goes by the name of torpedo tits (excuse the vulgarity) combined with a crack of dawn chill, equals one scary upper body region.
Jamie’s young charge approaches me, the look of pure fear on my face must be evident. I know I am going to have to shake this woman’s hand, but in order to do that I will have to uncross my arms that are currently hiding my awesomely piercing nips.
In an act of deplorable effort I attempt to keep my arms in the crossed position over my braless boobs and thrust my stump of a forearm towards her. She has to lift her own hand much further up than necessary to grasp my hand, which is limp and non-enthusiastic, a complete waste of a handshake if you ask me.
We stand there and engage in awkward chitter chatter for what seems like an eternity. My arms are beginning to cramp from the high crossed location they are securely fastened to and I can feel the back of my shorts falling down to divulge my fissure once again.
Beads of sweat are forming on my brow, maybe because the temperature is rising, but more than likely because of this iffy predicament that I have been placed in against my will.
A fleeting thought that I should explain my situation to this girl crosses my mind. I don’t really want Jamie’s employees thinking of me as some crazy braless maniac, that hoards food on counter tops and lets her children run around in the nude displaying their bottoms for all to see (well the last part is true, and i guess I am a bit crazy at times…). Nevertheless, I bite my tongue, because me rambling about these thoughts, will only make matters worse at this point.
I am perturbed. Should I reach around and heave my oversized shorts up, running the serious risk of revealing my oh so scary mommy nipples?
Or just let it be? let ‘er all hang out. I’m in this far already, why don’t I just show you this strange growth I have on my inner thigh while I’m at it.
Finally they leave. I let out a huge breath of relief, and then indulge in this eerie cry/laugh thing which makes the situation feel a little less ghastly.
The two cold hard facts that I learned from this experience; Never assume your husband would ‘know’ to call or text before bringing people over.
And finally, I will be assuring I am dressed (at the very least in a bra and pajama pants) before 8 o’clock am from here on out.