Frumptastic

I've been all sorts of frumpy lately.

I like to think that when I actually throw on a little makeup and spend a few minutes on the hair, I look all right. I can throw together an outfit. And accessorize. I have cute shoes.

Lately, though? I have nowhere to be, ever, so unless I have a job interview or a date or otherwise exciting evening plans, well, on those days it's a challenge just to shower and change out of my pajamas. Some days I do neither.

Yesterday, I embarked on a mission to cute myself up. I dyed the hair for the first time in over two months (Clairol calls it Spiced Tea, I call it SupercalifragifuckingRED) and fashioned it into a messy updo, plucked my eyebrows, threw on a little makeup and hauled ass over to the coffee shop where I'm a permanent fixture Monday through Friday between the hours of 4:00 and 7:00. After about 20 minutes, The Ex walked by, saw me in the window and stopped in to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes and then he eyed me a little funny.

"Why are you all done up all cute just to sit in the coffee shop and write?" he asked, smirking in that way he does when he's debating whether or not to make fun of me. I tried to explain that the dumpier I look, the dumpier I feel, and since I have no reason to get all gussied up every day, simply leaving the house will have to suffice as a reason to look cute.

"Yeah right," he said. You're hoping to snag yourself some hot writer boy hanging out here."

Well, that too. You know, if I can't have the hot trainer at my gym.