The Mathematics of Glamour

At least my hair was clean today. Magical curlers substituted for the baggy eyes my colleagues could not ignore under fluorescents.  I allowed myself enough sleep last night, finally, and I was punished.

Dear Body of Mine,

I’m cutting out 20 minutes of sleep tonight. Maybe then you won’t swell in your pleasure.  Warning: I will continue to shed minutes until you are obedient.

Love, Kira

Beyond cosmetics, I was not aware of my distasteful outfit until I hit my 10th hour.  I found my uneven khaki pants and over-sized navy sweater (snagged from my Dad’s closet in 7th grade) very much present at the Toastmaster’s public speaking event.  My mind, on the other hand, was barely in attendance.

I showed up to the formal meeting as a guest, clueless of the details and meeting protocol.  As a first-timer, I was called upon to give an impromptu speech for one minute.

All confidence fell to my ankles as I realized that my spider socks were not only creeping into the non-Halloween month of February but also creeping up my leg and clearly visible to those surrounding me.

I don’t actively think about my appearance around other civilians.  I might care what my stubbly date thinks, and I might even want to impress my friends, monthly, with some effort and accessories.

I haven’t decided if I should start caring more or less about style.  How do you know if your appearance is authentic and quirky or just sloppy and disastrous?  Or does it even matter?

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