Last night I finally cried again. I cried until I felt human, until I felt like a mother. I had to trust myself when it started, because it felt like I was never going to get control back. But once it was over I was glad, and I felt like myself again. Not my old self, but the new person I’m becoming.
Also of note: I have started my annual fake tan debacle. In case you couldn’t figure it out, that’s when every year I try and use sunless tanner to save people from having to hide their eyes from my bluish-white legs when I wear a skirt.
Many sunless tanners claim to be “easy to use” or “streak free” or “so easy even a monkey could use it” but my experience has been mixed to bad. Having only the energy to slather up my arms and legs, but none of the precision to do my feet or hands, I just end up looking like I rolled in dirt. There are swirls of rust color all along my body, including my neck (I itched myself and forgot to wipe the lotion off) my boobs (I must have rubbed an arm against a boob at some point) and my cuticles.
The good news about the self-tanning extravaganza is that I have not lost interest in my appearance. The bad news is that my interest in my appearance isn’t high enough to pull off actually looking good. Or even decent.