I ain't trying to be someone I'm not, and that's the beauty of being 35.
You reach your mid-30s, and you
what people think of you.
You drop your messy kids in their wrinkled uniforms off at school in your old as fudge maternity pants and a stained t-shirt with a bird's nest of a top knot plopped on your head, and it could matter to you less what anyone thinks of you.
Sure it's nice to present in a way that looks more put-together and inviting, but honestly, I think nothing says "Welcome! This is me!" better than sharing with people the authentic train wreck [unique beauty] that you are
behind closed doors,
in the walls of your own home,
when you're not "trying."
Trying to impress anyone.
Or trying to be anyone other than who you are.
So here's to the messy ones.
The disheveled ones.
The flaky ones.
The ones who fall asleep on the couch and fall behind in conversations.
The consistently confused ones.
The broken ones, maybe?
The imperfect ones.
The "work-in-progress" ones.
The unapologetic ones.
The ones that "get up and go"
more than they go to
the expensive clothes store,
the nail salon,
the shower (perhaps?) [ew],
or the fancy places where fancy people go.
May we respect the hell out of them and, damn, let's love 'em good too [pretty please].