Last Friday in preparation for our tour of the new Mormon temple, Jon and I had to wake up early, shower, and put on our Sunday best all before taking Leta to school. This upset the routine of the morning a bit as we usually just slip on pants and walk her into school wearing the shirts we slept in. My hair stylist takes her daughter to the same school, and I just know there have been mornings when she’s seen me climb out of the car, my face still imprinted with the outline of my pillow, my hair a nest of unruly tangles, and thought to herself, dear Lord, no wonder that woman hasn’t sent me any referrals.
Jon was wearing slacks and a pressed button-down shirt that morning, and I had on a fancy black maternity dress and boots. We looked like we had somewhere important to be, like spies maybe, and when we pulled into the parking lot at Leta’s school and found the place empty I demanded we stop the car and wait. We were going to need witnesses. There was no way we were going to have put so much work into cleaning ourselves up without having anyone see it. We’d be two trees in the forest falling over in silence, BECAUSE NO ONE WAS THERE TO HEAR US FALL.
So we waited for a few minutes, and when it was apparent that most of the kids had already been dropped off Jon tried to tell me how much he appreciated the work I had put into cleaning myself up. And I was all DOES NOT COUNT. It would need to be a mother who would call up another mother and go did you see the Armstrong woman? And the other mother would go no, but I heard she was wearing a dress! And then the original mother would go yeah, and she didn’t even smell like a hot dog!
Sadly, the only person who got to see the result of all my hard work was my own mother who by law is required to follow up any compliment with, “Is that a pimple on your forehead? Here, let me touch it.”