Today was supposed to be a big day for me.

I was to go into the city for professional headshots, see a beloved friend for dinner, and end the evening in a bar with former colleagues, where we would all finally speak frankly about the tribulations of the mental health business. I was excited. Excited? Not the right word. I was almost nervous about the levels of excitement I had within me about the plan to engage with the outside world…and wear pants.

The headshots were planted on me a few days ago, and I agreed to book them promptly because I was afraid I would lose my nerve and succumb to the nasty voice in my head that whispers dickishly, “you are going to look like ass, toots.” I believe every former performer has a slight fear of headshots, as we are told they are our ticket to the cool kids table. All you have to do is look good. And interesting. And versatile. But also plain so they can imagine you in different characters. But definitely be yourself. Inauthenticity comes off as weak. We root for characters that want to win.

I am no longer hoping a casting director needs to approve of the shape of my nose, or the absence of my collar bones, and took solace in the fact that I actually only had to be myself.

Ha.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

I am three and a half months postpartum. My “self” is somewhere - I am sure, but she is mainly kept in storage these days, and is uncertain if she still buys into who she thought she was.

Alas I am not quitter. I drove myself to thee finest Nordstrom Rack and tried on 15 garments which all made me feel/look like a fun aunt in the best case, and a retired art teacher who sculpts nudes of herself, and puts them around her house to her kids’ detriment.

I looked clunky. Tired. Like there once was a spark there but now there are milk stains and sweat, because apparently I am always hot nowadays.

I came home empty-handed and defeated. I was embarrassed and sad. I thought I was going to give myself a treat of some new clothes, but ended up allowing the dickish voice to take center stage.

Alas, as I said, I am not a quitter.

I decided that it was perhaps the “outlet”y vibe of the store I went to that didn't mesh with my new self. So I went to thee ritzy mall near where we live, and breathed in the luxury retail air wholeheartedly, as I walked around in my three-year old sandals with a peeling pedicure. I may not look it yet, but here is where I will find my look for the headshots. That are tomorrow.

I walked to Ann Taylor with vigor. In my mind, the ultimate outfit was hanging there among the other breezy, professional yet not too harsh blouses. I tried on 5 outfits. The retired art teacher persisted. I was drawn to flow skirts and crunchy tunics and she was feeling very seen. I sent pictures of every outfit to my friend, whom I was to meet today. She agreed I looked like I had been sculpting all day, and we needed to go a little more corporate.

It is important to state this friend is a former model, and actually has a sense of style. I am learning these days that my aesthetic is truly therapist.

I went to six other stores and eventually found my bliss at Anthropologie and Aritzia, and my friend confirmed I finally looked worthy of standing on a stage, just not for the purposes of collecting an award for my nude sculptures.

I did it. I found clothes that fit my postpartum body and made me feel like a sliver of my out-of-home self was still breathing.

Last night I laid my new clothes on the bed, and felt excited about being something other than a mom for a few hours. I planned my hair and makeup, and reveled in the opportunity to be so appearance focused and prissy. Despite my postpartum hair loss reaching a peak, I took solace in the fact that come the new year, I will be adorned with a strange-albeit-existent postpartum wreath along my hairline.

Ha.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

The baby didn’t sleep, and woke up with a fever. My nervous system, being traumatized by last month’s medical drama, sent me straight into stress mode. I was right back where I had started. Milk stained. Tired. Stressed. My former self right back in storage under the clothes which no longer fit.

I cancelled my day, and took my baby to the doctor. Thankfully, she was only sporting a minor virus, and not going full flair drama like last month.

I was also sad and angry. I wanted to see people, and most of all, see myself for a bit. I felt like I couldn’t win. Or maybe today.

Today I shall embrace my retired art teacher aesthetic and cuddle my snotty baby. My former self can wait in storage, as I am not sure she even fits me anymore.

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