Unfancypants.

When I started making my trek over the hill from North Hollywood to Mr. Boy's place, I always made sure I was appropriately slackmistress-clad in my uniform of tight t-shirt, boots, miniskirt and knee socks if the outfit called for it.  Panties were always simple black cotton, bras were always black and clasped in back (no need to confuse anyone).  Makeup was always simple, as some nights I'd end up crashing on the futon-mattress-placed-on-slats he called a bed.  You dress like a supervillain, he once told me, quoting Hank Venture.

While I doll up when we venture out into the world, most days find me in jean and t-shirts, or in the case of the last couple of days whilst I've been sick, ratty t-shirts, sweatpants, and glasses.  The days that I'm here when he gets home from work, I always think I should put on makeup or maybe I should change, but those are also the days I get up at 4:45am to get to work on time, and usually I just think fuckit. At least I'm clean.

I'm wondering, though, if that's unfair.  To him?  To me?  It's not as if I've "let myself go" (as my last ex-boyfriend told me as I gained twenty pounds over the span of the relationship).  While I can stand to lose a few pounds, I weigh less now than when we got together.  And not getting dolled up isn't a sign of depression - I'm getting out of bed, I'm going to work, I'm writing.  While I certainly have my moments (as documented in this blog), I'm reasonably together and working hard toward multiple goals I've set for myself.  I'm not unhappy at all (although I would like this head cold to leave, now.)

Have I dropped the ball?   Have I lost my mystique?  Is that why people date crazy, because it's never boring?

Weigh in.