Tuesday night I was in a super funk. I don’t even know what hit me, but it wasn’t good. The funk truck affected me so, that I didn’t even want to go to my regular Tuesday night Zumba class. Everyone who knows me knows how crazy-mad in love I am about this new workout swiffering the nation. It was that bad. Not only did I not want to work-out, but once I made dinner, I parked my butt on the couch for the remainder of the evening – a rarity. My evenings are usually chasing kids and doing baths, but not this night. I mentally checked out, and I wanted nothing more than to be left the heck alone. I didn’t chase the kids. I didn’t give them a bath. I feel bad for Brandon because at some point he asked if I was ok. I shrugged and mumbled some lie. I felt myself slipping into a funk, and it was a real pill.
Funks are peculiar little phenomenons. I never know when or where it will hit, and it could strike with a sudden dip in the weather or a callous glance from a stranger. I’ll be hunting down antique treasures at my favorite thrift mall only to catch a glimpse of my never-shrinking rear in an intricate floor mirror which sends me second guessing that buttery blueberry muffin I ate for breakfast. Funk city, man.
Once we put the girls to bed that evening, I immediately realized that I needed to relinquish the quiet by feeding the happy. I was looooong overdue for a mani/pedi, so I decided that it was finally time to pretty-up my hands. For weeks (dare I say months?!) I thought, I’ll get around to doing my nails; I don’t have the time now. And they were looking pretty nasty. So I did them – and I felt instantly alive again. Brandon then went to bed, and I stayed up to finish reading two books on my Kindle. It’s amazing what a little me-time can do to a girl. I closed my eyes that night feeling calm and accomplished. I promised the darkness that I’d leave the house for mommy-daughter time the next day.
I awoke with a newfound spring in my step. I had a 50%-off coupon for one of my favorite stores, New York & Co., so we headed to the mall once everyone was up and ready. Having scouted the clothes before the coupon’s valid-thru date, I already knew what I wanted to buy; it was to be a super quick stop. Once we arrived, I grabbed the tops in my size and darted to the register before the girls could yank all the merch. off the display tables. As the cashier removed the security tags, I saw it – a top displayed on one of the mannequins - and you know mannequin swag is full price. I never buy clothes at full price. I’m a bargain shopper by nature who gets high off of clearance rounders and redlined tags. But my eyes were transfixed. The top spoke to me, “Hello there gorgeous. I’m the Coco Chanel top you’ve been dreaming about and hunting down for months. Take me home and try me on - you dirty little fashionista wannabe. I’ll make you feel fabulous.” I had to have it. Like, now now now. I ditched the stroller and slinked away to see if they had it my size. Of course they did. It was meant to be mine. It wasn’t on sale, but I suppose I was having a retail therapy moment. Anyhow, I got four tops for the price of one – including a stripy Coco Chanel inspired top I’ve been craving. Winning.
From New York & Co we be-lined it to Macy’s where they carry Chanel No. 5. Having never worn the fragrance let alone smelled it, I was eager to complete the inner channeling of Chanel. I sprayed it directly onto my wrist which at first was a mistake. That shiz smells like something my grandmother would wear. But, you know, after it aired a bit, it smelled more like baby powder – which reminds me of babies. And I’m ok with smelling like babies (as long as the smell doesn’t originate from her innards.) I spritzed a couple of sample cards with the new scent and tucked them away in my purse. That way every time I’m in there, I’ll be reminded of the joy Coco Chanel brings me and the new shirt I now adore.
The drive home from the mall was noticeably different. The Beatles One album blasted our speakers while we sang (Kennedy blabbed) All You Need Is Love. I stopped to grab a venti Vanilla Blonde from Starbucks – a rarity since we live 30 minutes from the nearest coffee house. I had a blueberry muffin, my favorite coffee blend, my favorite band playing, and now my new favorite shirt. All traces of my funky-sackyness diminished.
The funk faded into stripes and pearls and pretty painted nails. I even popped open a German wheat to remind me that when there’s a dark, there’s a light. So I had a funk… I think everyone does, but it’s knowing how to pull yourself out and come back to enjoying the moment. Quoting a new friend, “Go get yourself a coffeehouse coffee. Wear something pretty. Do your hair. That shit really works.” So true.
I hope you find what speaks to you.
I hope you find what speaks to you.
|To Coco Chanel: Thanks For Everything. XO|
|My new digs. I had to complete the look with my thrift-find strand of pearls.|