California Dreaming

 

It took me six minutes and four outfits to get myself presentable enough to go outside with my kiddos today.  Six minutes doesn’t sound that long, but when two toddlers are waiting eagerly (euphemism), it’s a ridiculous amount of time, especially considering our destination was the front yard on our dead end street.  Nobody but our mail carrier and my babies would see me.  Still, six minutes of indecision.

This was my problem: I’ve been working on my appearance for the last few months.  And yes, it does require the amount of effort to make the word, work, appropriate here; beauty is not coming easy these days.  Besides trying to rid myself of the last of my baby weight, I’ve also been trying to work on my wardrobe.  My pre-baby clothes are not only still too small, but they also no longer match my lifestyle.  The year before I got pregnant with Max was my engagement year, so I went directly from wedding weight to pregnancy pounds.  Andres and I used to go to amazing parties and clubbing on South Beach.  I hated the teaching job I held at the time, so I never bought anything for daytime.  Strike that: I did have yoga clothes.  In fact, that is what my wardrobe has consisted of for most of my adult life: yoga clothes and party dresses.  That’s all very well and fabulous, but what should I wear to play T-ball in my front yard with my sons?  What should I wear to the grocery store?  The pediatrician’s?

I’ve never liked jeans.  Buying them is traumatic, wearing them is uncomfortable, and it’s way too hot in Miami to wear them most of the year.  Miami’s heat is actually a huge part of my problem.  I watch all of those style shows on junk TV, but the “running errands” look is always a bunch of layers that just don’t work when lifting 25 pound toddlers in 84° humid heat.  I’m beginning to think that Miami is not only tacky out of a crazy culture, but also out of necessity.  We have to be as naked as we can be to survive the tropics.

Back to today.  My whining babies were getting restless and I knew I didn’t have anything to wear that was both cute and clean.  I settled on a graduated pink yoga top and navy sweat capris.  I laced up my new Shape Up sneakers, a requested Christmas gift that still feels odd.  I’m not used to wearing sneakers for anything other than working out, but I’m trying to give my butt all the help it can get.  So basically, all that fuss and I still looked like the mismatched, pudgy fashion-less mom I fear I have become.

I sprung open the garage door to release the balls, wagons and toy lawn mowers the boys were scrambling for.  It was mid-seventies today.  I walked to the edge of our driveway, out of the shade of our Royal Poinciana to soak up some vitamin D. You know how sometimes a scent hits you or a particular temperature or sound suddenly transports you back to another time.  I found myself in Malibu during the few months I lived there.  Everything good about California came flooding back to me: the sunshine without heat, the healthy lifestyle, the general air of casualness.  My plans to move there kicked into high gear this year, though the work ahead of me to make that move possible is daunting.  Lately, it’s been keeping me up late.

In a flash I was already there, soaking in that Western sun I so miss. I caught a glimpse of myself in the car window: blond tousled hair, barbie pink shirt, tennis shoes…

I felt as California as an avocado.

I’M COMING!!!