My mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year.

“I need new underwear. The old lady kind, cotton briefs, size 8. Also, pajama pants. Don’t bother to buy me jeans. Or, you know, real clothes.”

Real clothes, especially tight things like jeans, hurt my oh so sensitive body.

I live in pajamas now. If I do go out, I have two pairs of broken in jeans that still fit somewhat, a pair of grey yoga pants and a pair of track pants. A few pairs of sweatpants, too. I wear sports bras that are one size too big, for comfort. (They keep them up where they belong, sort of.) I have a few tops and my tennis shoes.

Fuzzy socks and slippers of varying softness.

I haven’t dyed my hair in months. It is usually put up in a bun or pony tail. I don’t wear make-up. I don’t do my nails anymore, preferring to cut them down short.

In fact, I don’t pay attention to my appearance much at all.

frumpy

I wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I cared about what I looked like. But nowadays, my priorities are different.

Will I need to take a nap today?

Do I have any errands? 

If so, can I get away without wearing a bra?

How bad will the pain be by the evening? 

When was the last time I took a shower?

How long have I been wearing these particular pair of jammie pants?

Being chronically frumpy happens slowly, until you realize that you haven’t looked at yourself in a mirror for months. You have no idea what dressing up feels like. Your old lipsticks get all dried out and gross. You forget to shave your legs and armpits.

People rarely say anything. Because they are scared. As well they should be.

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