I think Cory may be a little bit irritated with me right now. No matter what hill or valley she was traversing at that time, I forced that baby in the shower daily. I remember when they came out with the dry shampoo spray for those in-between washing your hair days. You spray a little on your roots and it absorbs any oil and makes your hair smell fantastic. I just about fell over when Cory asked me if a person could just use that every day...forever.
So here I am, putting in more time finding creative ways to make it look like I've washed my hair than it would take to just wash it in the first place. Those French girls who traipse around with three day dirty hair that look like supermodels have nothing on me right now. If you really need to divert attention, just throw on some red lipstick. Done and done. So I can only imagine how aggravated Cory must be with me right now to see me steadily avoiding the shower when I forced her into it time after time. If I could hear her speak, it'd be, "Really Mom? Really? How is that fair?"
Yeah, I did feel a little guilty when I settled criss-cross applesauce into my favorite chair at the coffeeshop today and looked down to see my heel was covered in white paint. Oops.
How does one get gesso on their foot, you ask? I'm pretty sure taking your palette to bed with you will do it every time. When I can't sleep, I draw in bed. Last night, I came up with the most fabulously mournful girl, who captured exactly how I was feeling at the time. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came back to bed, I was startled to see her staring back at me. It was one of those rare moments when you are thinking, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe I made that! That's actually not half-bad." If I'd held a mirror up to my face, I'm pretty sure I'd have recognized that look of pride I remember so well from my baby girl's face...that look you only get when you've taken an image out of brain and plunked it down, whole and squirming, on a piece of paper or canvas, completely unchanged from what you saw in your mind.
As I assessed my painting with a critical eye, I could see she needed some highlights. It was after 3 a.m. I could not see myself setting up shop at the dining room table, so I crept in and squirted a little gesso on my paint splattered palette and snuck it into bed with me. I held it stealthily to one side so Tim wouldn't see as I made my way through the living room. I had just sat down with my brush in hand, when my bedroom door swung open dramatically. Tim stood in the doorway, looking at me with a half-smile on his face, "Painting in bed, honey?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.
"Umm, she just needed a little something..." I trailed off, busted, caught. I dropped my head, feeling like a child caught sneaking chocolates into bed. This poor man, used to me running the household like a well-oiled machine, was now saddled with a depressed, unwashed woman who was too lazy to paint in an upright position. Good thing he loves me...a lot. Trying to redeem myself, I turned my paper around to show him.
"Ooooh, that's a good one." he said. "Try to get some sleep, honey."
No lecture about the difficulties of paint removal on fabrics. No demanding that I do anything different than exactly what was providing me comfort at that moment. He let me just be me. He let me have what I needed.
I often complain about Tim not being more affectionate, not wanting to talk, not being interested in traveling memory lane with me. What I don't say is that Tim is always there. That is maybe more important than all the rest. He never leaves, not even when faced with a ripe smelling middle aged woman who doesn't bother with makeup anymore and has trouble finding joy in anything. Even when faced with my shopping addictions, he grins, shakes his head, and says, "You know what they say, honey...never quit quitting."
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