I Don't Match and I Don't Care

I love clothes, honestly, I do. I love putting together the perfect outfit. My makeup highlighted in all the right areas. Fingernails polished nicely (toes, as well). Hair so envious people stop to touch it. I like to smell like fresh roses with a halo hanging just above my head, defining my perfection for the world to admire.

Reality. Is. Much. More. Different.

Instead, I wake up looking like something that crawled out of a hole. My hair looks like I just got off a roller coaster, after riding it two hundred times, and my nails look like I've been clawing my way out of a coffin. My skin, ugh, looks like it's been lashed by some menacing creature who lives under my bed and my makeup, oh no, I can't find it anywhere. My outfits, unfortunately, do not always look like I image them, mainly because I've purchased them on how they look on a model that is a size two, and, I, well, am not.

Ah.

Life.

Yet, here I am. Walking out the door with an old zebra striped skirt, a flowered top, the closest shoes to the door I can find (colorful flip flops), hair in a messy bun (not the cute kind), no makeup on, barely remembered a bra, and I do not smell like sunshine. All because my family needs toilet paper. Right now. (FYI: It's 9:44 pm)

Priorities took precedence over looks.

I get one good look at myself in the mirror on the way out.

I don't match, and I don't care.

Such is my life, sometimes.