The Prime of Miss Jean...er...Sisiggy

Okay. It’s official.

I will never be “put together.”

I had hopes, even at this advanced age. I thought that maybe, someday, given the perfect alignment of the stars and synchronization of serendipitous events that for perhaps a minute or so I might achieve that “put together look.”

But I know it is not to be. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. And at this stage, really what's the point?

I can tell myself that if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, “the look” would be mine. But no. This will never happen.

Not only will it never happen but, if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, on that particular day my hair would have a dorky cowlick. This is a given. It’s always something, to quote Roseanne Rosannadanna.

I does make me feel better to know that there are others like me. You’ve seen us. Nice outfit, nice bag, nice hairdo, and the shoes…….ooooooh, the shoes…just…miss…the … mark. Or the jewelry is too small. Or too big. Or too loud.

Perhaps we can form a support group.

Take the world’s simplest outfit to put together: t-shirt and jeans. What can go wrong? Two universal wardrobe elements. You don’t even have to check for holes anymore! You would think this would be the ideal uniform for the terminally scruffy.

But my t-shirt is never the right size. It’s either too long, too short, too big or too tight. And jeans? It’s either that the waist is up around my ribs or the crotch is down around my knees.

And should the t-shirt be the right size and the jeans fit me perfectly, there’s always, always, always the hair factor. Jeans and a t-shirt require clean, shiney, but not too pouffy hair. Casual hair. Kind of free-style, blowin’-in-the-wind but returning to flowing tandem-strand action hair. But the day my jeans and t-shirt fit would be the day I slipped with the conditioner bottle and, having taken the last shower in the household for that day, would only have cold water with which to rinse it out, resulting in lank, lifeless wavy strings. Except for the grays. They would be up and pouffy and waving a greeting to everyone.

I guarantee.

And so I am now embracing my inner and outer slob that I now realize is eternal. Don’t pity me. I know that everyone has a cross they must bear and mine is the burden of infinite dweebdom.