Enter the 90s. Jeans got loose (Goddess be praised - the only thing I didn't like about 80s fashion was that through most of the decade I found myself unable to breathe), styles became more casual and we could cut back on the hairspray. I think this was around the time - my mid-twenties - that I started to not care as much about the way I look. At age 18 I married then had John at 19 and by the time he started school suddenly found myself less interested in adding two hours of personal pretty to an already exhausting schedule. Besides, the Doc Martens and relaxed fit jeans were just so comfortable, and who gave a damn how I looked anyway? I didn't get to leave the house much and the ex would have cheated on me even if I looked like Pamela Fucking Anderson. I cut my hair short once to spite him and he never even noticed. He also didn't notice when I lost a sizable chunk of weight and was able to fit into jeans I hadn't worn in years. So what was the point?

Fast forward to 2007. John is about to turn 19 himself and I have two autistic children at home.

And absolutely no will to be as girly as I used to be. There's a commercial (for Dove, I think), that says 89% of moms admit they've let themselves go. We don't do this to spite our boyfriends/husbands and we haven't gotten lazy. For most of us the balance between doing what we want to do, and what we know needs to be done develops an overwhelmingly preferential slide toward that which needs to be done when the babies are newborns. By the time we look after the needs of our adorable offspring there just isn't enough energy (or often time) left in the reserves for ourselves.

The result? In my case, a look that rides the line between hippie chick and hobo. Lots of denim, tee shirts and sneakers. More often then not, my hair is pulled back in a pony tail and my overgrown bangs secured with clips - that is, until they grow out and I can tie them up with the rest of my hair. I also wear my husband's shirts, which are amazingly comfortable. I have a train case full of makeup (some of which has never even been opened), but end up going out without it most of the time. I can blame it on not having enough time or energy, and in fact most of the time I do, but to be completely honest I've lost the will.

I realized this a few days ago when I dropped Trent off at school. Even at 8:30 in the morning the other moms have nice clothes on, their makeup meticulously applied and trendy short haircuts styled to perfection. I look like the walking dead. The problem is, this realization should have been some kind of wakeup call or at least stir some part of the inner *long since grown up* party girl who used to think there was nothing more important than how she looked when she went out with her boyfriend that night. That part of myself seems to have gone dormant. I do care about the basics; clean hair, teeth brushed, do I smell(?), but the uber-girly stuff, I just can't be bothered with.

Larry tells me I'm gorgeous without the makeup and that he actually prefers how I look without it, but that's not exactly what I see when I look in the mirror. What I see is in no way comforting.

Dark areas under my eyes. Laugh lines. Crow's feet. Thousand yard stare.

I know I look like death to everyone who comes in contact with me (except Larry, which makes me wonder if he's not developing a taste for necrophilia) and I've come to the surprising conclusion that I care not.

I wonder if that means anything?