Chocolate Lament

I just ate three pieces of chocolate.

Now for the lament. 

I don’t own a treadmill.

And I know I’m not making it to the gym tonight.  What a bear, to haul both of the kids to the gym.  To walk the gauntlet of the swimming pool with my 4 year old clamoring to get in and the last thing I want to do is put myself in a swimsuit.

When I see pictures of myself from five years ago I get sad.  Life was super simple.  Un-kid-ified.  All I had to worry about was how I looked.  How vapid—yes—but what I wouldn’t give for a few moments of that vapidity (is that even a word).  

Now in all of the hustle and bustle of puke and poop I am lucky to make it out the door with any accessories on that aren’t broken, not to mention dry hair?

Am I destined to be like my mother?  Forever applying her mascara in the rearview mirror?  Is there some grace in that kind of acceptance?

I don’t want to give up.  I see women every day who have.  I always want to remain aspirational.  Beauty matters to me, even if I don’t embody one ounce of it.  Even if I just witness it.

So I’m in search of pretty.

Even if it is haphazard.