I Am Not A Unicorn

Back when I was single, there was a hang out place in Edmonton where single people of my faith would get together. It was called The Institute. People would go there to take religion classes or to do homework or just to hang out and play pool or pinball or ping pong. Congregations also held huge activities or dances there.

I went over one day for an activity and arrived early. There were sofa-chairs (what is the actual name for those things anyway?!) in the common area, so I plopped myself down sideways and rested my naked sandaled feet on the arm of the chair next to me. I pulled out my cell phone and started doing what all single people do when they find themselves alone in a public place: texting.

A few minutes went by and other singles started to arrive. I didn't recognize any of them until a short round blonde young man came in through the door. He greeted me and I smiled and we started to chat. Things were just fine until... He looked down at my feet (which were nearly at his eye-level) and he got this sort of awkward disgusted look on his face. "Your feet are really dry," he said, looking back in my direction. I lifted and turned my foot so as to get a better look, and low and behold, the side, just under the ankle, was a little white and flaky with dryness. I put my foot back down and looked back at him to see what he would say next. "A little moisturiser right there would clear it right up," he said a little cheerfully, as though he wasn't sure if I already knew this. I don't know if I responded but he eventually walked away and I planted my feet firmly on the floor where they belonged and tried to reabsorb myself into the screen on my cellphone.

Today was one of those days where I, the mother of a one-year-old who runs through the house terrorizing everything within arms reach, truly pampered myself. I showered *gasp*, washed my hair with expensive shampoo, and even shaved my legs! After towelling off my hair and wrapping myself in an unnecessarily large bath robe, I applied a moisturising blueberry mud mask to my face and relaxed on my bed for 10 minutes listening to my iPod on shuffle. After I rinsed my face, I smeared one of Bath and Body Works' lotions on my legs and feet. That's when I remembered The Young Man at The Institute and The Awkward Encounter of The Flaky Feet.

My question is this: who decided that the standard for public appearances should be so high and specific. If a mother of several young children walks into a grocery store wearing sweat pants and a shirt with pancake batter crusted on the hem and her hair tossed into a less than beautiful "messy bun", why is she judged? Why do people say that she should take better care of her appearance and that having 4 kids is no excuse? I'm sorry, but I am a woman, not a fairytale creature. From time to time I have greasy hair, chipped nail polish, dry, uneven skintone, hair all over my body, and yes, even pores! I am not a smooth, symmectrical, freshly painted, high-heeled, shiny unicore from a storybook. I am a normal every-day human being. So when you see me, most of the time my hair will be frizzy in places, I will probably only be wearing a little mascara, and my clothes might not fit quite right. Excuse me for having a baby and relearning how to dress to my body shape. Of course there will be days when I may or may not decide to dress up -- parties, date night, the random Tuesday -- but don't make a big deal out of it if I don't. Take me as I am! At lease I don't smell bad...most of the time.