My black pumps have found a semi-permanent resting place under my desk. It's a forlorn sight, representing the recent turn of events where everything hurts, nothing is comfortable and each normal activity (walking, breathing, sleeping) has become more difficult. And now the girl who was quite happy to sport her little black dresses, tights, and the perfect pair of heels barely has the energy to throw on leggings and an oversized sweater.
I hate my hair, I need a pedicure, and feel anything but beautiful (depsite how many times my lovely husband says that I am). I roll into a room - belly first - thinking I've done well if my tennis shoes are tied and I've put a little blistex on my chapped lips. No, I realize I'm not a monster, and yes it's all worth it - but I miss my gamine self and hope she still exists somewhere beneath these layers.