The Impressive Effort it Takes to be a Hot Mess

The pink azaleas are blooming, the wind is blowing the scent of orange blossom my way, the dog is licking his butt—it is a beautiful spring evening.

Spring makes people get all feisty with fresh ideas. I had the fresh idea of making an effort to look like I actually make an effort. For a woman, this generally means putting on make-up. So I was standing at my bathroom mirror, thinking about effort and all that stuff, and getting out the eyeshadow and—wait, no, that isn’t how it went.

The Start-over

So I was sleeping peacefully in bed after my after party last night, catching up on some much needed rest, basking in the lovely feel of cool spring air and lovely orange blossom, and the sound of the dog licking his butt when—I jerked upright in bed. I ran through the house to the calendar and there it was: the doctor’s appointment for the tot, 8:30 AM.

“Shit!” I yelled, running through the house, squinting in my semi-blind state at the electric numbers on the stove. 8:10. “There’s no way we can make it!” I shouted at my bewildered husband. I ran through the house, snagging my shoulder on the cabinets, stubbing my toe on the baseboard, and skidding to a stop at the bathroom sink.

I speed-brushed my teeth. I knotted my oily hair back up into a bun like a school teacher stealthily exiting the principal’s office at lunch hour. I threw on a shirt that looked like it might appear to match my pants if in the right lighting. I ran out of the bedroom, then backtracked. You can’t go to a doctor’s office without a bra, I muttered as I plowed through the bra/underwear drawer. Underclothes were fluttering through the air like azalea petals—soft pinks and cream colors drifting to their place on the floor.

“Get up! Get up!” My tornado-self blasted into the children’s room, where they were still groggily rubbing their eyes. “We are late! One minute to get dressed! One minute!” Then I blasted back through the house, the rubble of overturned toys and books in my wake. “Useless clutter be gone!” I shouted triumphantly until I reached the pantry.

I’m officially a crunchy mom, I thought as I emptied a box of granola bars into my purse. Chocolate chip granola bars for breakfast in the van—it could be worse. I felt the adrenaline pumping. I was almost breaking out into a sweat. It was like a morning workout.

Fifteen minutes later we sat in the doctor’s office waiting room. Wrinkly unmatched clothing, moderately dirty flip-flops, oily hair from a missed shower, moderately clean teeth, not a dash of make-up, a belly full of sugary oats—but I had on a bra.

This paragraph is what I call the moral of the story. So, which takes more effort? The above mentioned morning workout, or calling the doctor’s office to cancel last minute while leisurely showering and applying a palette of paint to your face? No, no, pay attention! The correct answer is the former—looking like a hot mess takes a lot of effort.

So next time you see that lady sitting in the doctor’s office with mismatched flip-flops and a bandana over her hair, don’t judge—that woman has her shit together. Alright, that might be an exaggeration, but she’s a real go-getter.

The plum trees are blooming, the birds are singing, and at 4:30 this afternoon I did put on eyeshadow, just for fun. The dog? Yep, he’s licking his butt again.