What first caught my eye was the ponytail. I saw it swinging to and fro behind the face of the fast-walking brunette headed toward me on the wrong side of the street. As she approached, I could see that she was toned, tanned and twenty-something. She wore a white, close-fitting, sleeveless piece of “active-wear”, unzipped to reveal a black sports bra, with black “active-wear” bottoms of some sort. She had it all together.
I felt frumpy.
I could picture her going to work in an hour or two. She would be wearing a carefully chosen outfit, and her make-up would be flawless, and her hair would be flowing loosely around her shoulders while maintaining an appropriately professional appearance. She would go out to lunch, meet friends after work for “happy hour” and then return home later to find it perfectly in order.
Just then she spoke to another young woman who was getting something out of her car. She had already turned around when I glanced over, but I could see that her clothes were not “active-wear.” She was wearing loose-fitting khaki pants and a comfortable-looking knit top and sensible shoes; her hair was not in a ponytail, and it was not swingy and salon-perfect. What she was retrieving from her car was a collapsible crib (or whatever it is called) full of toys. She was not moving very fast.
Some might describe her as “frumpy.”
I could picture her day as well. She would drop her baby off at daycare, go to work, eat a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, use her break to phone the daycare to check on her little one, and then rush to pick him/her up after work. This would be her happy hour. Then she would walk through the door after stopping at the grocery store, and she would be greeted by a less than perfect house-keeping scenario.
Two lives: one fashionable; one frumpy. I couldn’t help but think . . . if I had it all to do over again . . . I would choose . . .
. . . the frumpy one.