Monday, June 8, 2009

Down the Frump Path

I spent most of my life doing my hair every day, making my face up and holding my stomach in. There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself and looking nice, but when you’re finally content with your life, you should be able to let your guard down and slip out a few belches once in a while.

Warning: Once you let that first audible belch out, you may find yourself at a T in the road. ‘Left’ is the way of eternal beauty, manicures, hair color and toned thighs; turning ‘Right’ leads down “The Frump Path.”

At the start of “The Frump Path,” the trees encroach like arches, filtering light through limbs decorated with tight jeans, Spanx, support hose, high-heels and various other elements of torture that newly liberated frumps have cast upwards in moments of jubilance. Eyelash curlers, gummy mascara wands and clip-on earrings dot bushes and ivies. Down a stretch, past the Recliner Forrest and into the Valley of the Slouching Posture lies “The Land of Comfort.”

“The Land of Comfort” is populated with boutiques and shops stocked with elastic-wasted pants, extra-large cotton sweatshirts and flat, sensible shoes. The bras in this utopia are not restricting or itchy or pokey. They are comfy and cotton and they close in front, creating a socially acceptable “uniboob” that offends no one. Women can purchase and wear peony printed swimsuits with swim-skirts and remain untanned, hairy and varicose-veined in broad daylight. There, makeup-less women, limp-haired and shoeless, can co-exist peacefully without being compared to stick models with silicone injected breasts; a “Frump Colony” where everyone is frumpy, and everyone is equal and no one cares what “Fashion Faux Paw” means anyway. On the horizon loom Muumuus, Kaftans and backless slippers that slap your cracked, dry heels when you walk.

Once you’re visited this most-righteous land, like “Shangri-La,” you can’t go back to the real world the same. You’ve tasted the fruit of self-acceptance...and it's sweet. When you love yourself, looking like Homer Simpson isn't the worst thing in the world. Eat that chocolate cupcake! Forget to shave your legs--ah, glorious freedom of being.

I am a frequent 'Comfort Land' visitor now. I think I saw my mother there. She was clipping the dead skin off her heel with a pair of manicure scissors, watching it fly through the air and land four feet away. My transformation into a frump is nearly complete. I’m starting to see the wisdom in being comfortable and not fretting about waning, outer beauty.

Burp.


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