Pretty Little Lies

Relationship experts forever harp on the importance of honesty in a marriage.  I’d like to get real for one second and stress the critical role of dishonesty in domestic bliss. 

This past Saturday evening, Hubs and I hosted a holiday get-together at chez Beck.  Our day involved a lot of cleaning, decorating and party set-up, and things paralleled pretty well until about five-thirty.  Around then, Hubs turned to me, said something like, “I’m going to go get dressed for the party,” and wandered off down the hall.  Moments later, he wandered back into the living room, freshly shaved, wearing a red sweater, dark jeans, and loafers.  Effortless perfection in less than ten minutes.  

I peeled the little guy off me, (don’t Bjorn your baby – he or she will assume you are their mule for life).   He immediately spider-monkeyed onto Daddy, and I went off for my ten minutes of personal prep. time.  Throw on a dress, heels; fluff the hair … easy, right?

One would think.   First stop, my closet, where I spent way more than ten minutes looking at the jam-packed jumble of crap (closets…not just for clothes anymore!), wondering whether to dig in or just take the easy road and set fire to the darn thing.   It took another ten minutes to find my go-to, can’t-fail, LBD.  I put it on and immediately realized I have not been working out lately, but I have continued to eat as if I run twenty-miles a week.  The effect was less than flattering, to say the least.  So, now I’m standing in my closet, in my underwear, thinking maybe I can find the red dress I wore to a Christmas party last year – the one made of some miracle spandex/Lycra/lipo-suction blend that hides a multitude of sins.  Spent another five minutes digging through what I was starting to call the tomb of the cursed fashion victim when fate smiled on me and I found the red dress.  I put it on, held my breath, and managed to pull the zipper up about an inch.  I straightened my spine, planted my feet, held my breath tighter, and zipped some more.  Finally I hunched forward, Quasimodo-style, threw my arm over my shoulder and yanked the zipper with all my might.  Not pretty, but effective.  I got the zipper up.  Once on, the dress didn’t look too bad, and I could suck in about one life-sustaining breath per minute.   Acceptable.

On to shoes.  My awesome, sexy red silk slides with the gold embroidery that go with the dress are open-toed.  A quick glance at my feet told me my pedicure looked … um …rustic.  In the end, I decided to wear a pair of basic, black, closed-toed pumps. 

I made my way to the bathroom for hair and make-up.  As I gathered hair supplies I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink.  Holy smokes!  Who let Grizzly Adams in?  Oh … wait …shit.  That’s me.  I’d meant to get to the salon earlier in the week and let them work their waxing magic, but it never happened.  So I plucked and tweezed until my eyes watered and I felt reasonably certain people wouldn’t greet me with, “Goonie Goo Goo.”  (Eddie Murphy fans, you’re welcome).

I still needed to do my hair, but, by now, I also really needed a drink.  Too bad leaving the bathroom put me at risk of running into a guest.  Note to self:  bathroom mini-bar. 

Doing my hair took a little longer than anticipated too, and involved the creative use of mascara.  Don’t ask.  All I can say is, on closer inspection, not all of the lighter strands in my mop turned out to be blonde.   

Over an hour after I’d left for my ten minute quick-change, I finally made my way back into the living room, all frazzled and duct-taped together.  Hubs looked up as I came in.  I don’t know what thoughts actually tumbled through is mind, but he smiled and said, “You look beautiful.”

Keep your honesty, my friends.  I’ll take my pretty little lies.