Confessions of a Slob

I admit it; I'm a slob.

Before I retired, no one knew I was a slob. Husband barely knew it. He thought I just dressed that way on house cleaning Saturdays or really bad sick baby days.

But in my heart, I was always dressed like that.

After I retired, I stopped wearing make-up to the grocery store (gasp).

Then I fell, and my whole appearance went to pot.

At first it was because I was in so much agony.

Then it was because I had surgery.

Then it was because I was recuperating from surgery.

Then, I like, you know, never recuperated from pajamas.

Today I am dressed thusly: granny drawers (I know, I know, T.M.I.), sweat pants that are too short (they were a good brand, but drew up length wise. If they'd drawn up like any self-respecting sweat pants in a sideways fashion, I could have given them to Daughter), a man's undershirt, a t-shirt and a sweat shirt. No mention of a certain undergarmet to go under the shirts, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Plus socks and house shoes that I've taken to wearing everywhere, unless it rains.

I will say in my defense that the shoes look like  soft leather moccasins. Sort of.

When I do go to town, or church on Wednesday nights, I wear appropriate clothing, except for the shoes, of course.

I wear make-up and dress clothes on Sunday morning.

I'll wear them if anyone wants to give me an award, have a dinner in my honor, or any other such wonderful thing.

But you really have to mean it.