One of the aspects of my personality I’ve most admired is I am relatively low maintenance. A fire-ready-aim kinda chick, I am not one to spend undue amounts of timing worrying about my appearance. I have a dear friend who has been known to spend 15 minutes or more fussing with errant strands of her gorgeous mane that are not performing as she would like them to. What? What does she expect them to do, tricks? Frankly, I haven’t been able to discern any difference between her before and after fussing, but it seems to make her comfortable.
Me? Well, having lived a long and satisfying life despite having unruly naturally curly hair, I learned long ago, good enough was good enough. Makeup? Really? C’mon, it goes on in the morning. Is everyone happy? It never occurs me to “check my face” throughout the day. I am not concerned with my nose’s shine factor, and I’m accustomed to raccoon eyes from the noon hour on. “Primp” is not in my vocabulary . I’ve been given two beautiful golden compacts, which I keep in their pretty velvet pouches in my lingerie drawer. Why do I need a compact?
This is all to say, I am startled to discover it suddenly takes quite a bit of effort to me out the door. It started with my decision to take better care of myself. So about two years ago I added two-mile walks to my daily routine. That added about 40 minutes to my nominal get-ready time. Now I’ve added a strength program, which takes another 30 minutes of morning time. I know myself well enough to know that any end-of-the-day exercising is unlikely.
So I’m committed to an hour plus maintaining and strengthening my bones, heart, and other muscles. It’s a lot of work. Adding this in to my personal mix has been challenging. That additional 30 minutes has to come from somewhere. I already determined shaving that off the sleep cycle was unwise. So I have 30 fewer minutes to devote to other activities. It seems kind of selfish. And necessary. And important. I’ve always loathed the expression “me-time.” It always sounds like an utterance from a vain socialite piled up in the bed watching soaps and eating bonbons. But I am beginning to see if I don’t care of myself, I’m not going to be able to take care of anyone else. Maybe my friends with better-looking hair already knew that. Who knows? I might even pull out the compacts!