A Confidence Makeover

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
April 30, 2017

I started wearing glasses when I was twelve. Most girls cringed at the idea, begging to replace sophisticated specs for the chore of touching and maintaining their eyeball every day. Not me, I was secretly happy the day I found out I had to wear glasses, and an obsession was born. I am the kind of girl that dreams of a collection of glasses that would rival most shoe collections. So, I wrote my own little makeover story—a story where glasses equal sophistication and sexy intelligence.

Around me, people were shopping for toilet paper and shaving razors, and I was endlessly putting on different pairs of glasses. I was at my eye appointment in a big box store sometime during my early teens. I pressed my finger on the nose pads of yet another pair of wire rim glasses. I was unimpressed and picky; I was looking for refinement, as I always do with new glasses. The selection looked so ordinary and plain. I ruled out contacts about as fast as my mom said no to the purple-tinted ones. I couldn’t remember which solution was for cleaning and could barely tell my left from my right (a skill I am still mastering). I already knew I wasn’t the kind of person who could take on such a responsibility, for life, unless I planned to enjoy frequent bouts of pink eye. The first time a contact fell out of my eye, I reacted the same way I do when a stink bug lands on my arm—a shrill shriek, followed by hesitation to touch.

The makeover story is always about the girl, an ugly duckling, who goes off and gets new clothes, a hairstyle, wears makeup and ditches the glasses only to become pretty and popular. I wasn’t that person either. I sought out the unique, a way to be unapologetically myself—the girl with her face in a book and a cute pair of glasses who clearly spent many Saturday nights alone watching melodramatic 90s teen comedies. I began to idolize that face, the dark hair, and the thick glasses. I wanted to be some combination of Lisa Loeb and Daria—artsy and sarcastic. After the long deliberation at the big box store, I found my perfect tortoiseshell “nerd” glasses in the sunglasses section. Can you make these into regular eyeglasses? I asked. They were perfect. “And you say, I only hear what I want to. “

Modern day me is still a misguided teenager at times, standing idly in my underwear looking for a perfect outfit  an acceptable outfit that will make up for today’s batch of insecurities. My beautiful high heels are tucked away in a bag, reminiscent of the days when I wore confident career clothes. The days when I had two kids and time. Now I settle for something quick—jeans, black t-shirt or a simple dress. It is all thrown on and no longer prepared. My tired (at home) mom wardrobe hasn’t experienced summer yet, so getting dressed has been one wardrobe identity crisis after another. I pull aside the splashes of color and pattern that was my old life, the one that no longer fits my fourth child postpartum body. (It is still under two years, so I am still allowed to call it that, right?) I ultimately end up in something black, the color of elegance and convenience. It is plain, easy; the way things have to be now. I channel my middle school uniform days and rely heavily on accessories to declare my individuality. (Does this choker make my neck look fat?) I look at my nightstand; it holds a cute ring, an old Anthropologie catalog (in case I win the lottery), a sewing kit, a pictureless frame and three pairs of glasses. I put on my new clear frames. Girl, mascara, now. They tell me. I think about writing my own makeover story. A tired mom, returned back to a new state of ugly duckling. She gazes longingly into her closet, yearning for the days when all those beautiful dresses and printed pants fit without shapewear or a promise to lose ten pounds. The magic wand of time waved over her, and that side-boob fat went away. She knows she can’t go back. After four kids, her body is totally new and once again different—just like her transformation. Her goal isn’t to be popular or get the perfect guy; it is for her to feel confident. She puts on her clothes and shoes, resting into her vanity with an open makeup bag. The crystal glasses capture the sunlight of another beautiful spring day. The perfect finishing touch, like a tiara for her face, that amplifies her beautifully tired eyes. I see the world clearer now, thanks to a quick confidence makeover and my sexy, sophisticated glasses.

This essay was written for DiscountGlasses.com who provided me with my beautiful new facial accessory. After I perused their large selection of affordable frames, I chose the one I wanted, uploaded my prescription and I had my new glasses in mere days. If you are like me and dream of a large collection of frames and are super frugal, this is a great option. Thanks to DiscountGlasses.com, I am one step (pair) closer to a selection of glasses to fit all of my (many) moods.

Spring Bloom

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
April 20, 2017

The trees sway in the breeze with abundant swagger. Each one is a mural of vibrant color and I absorb it all as I take my usual morning run through the graveyard. Running has become as much of a constant in my life as toddler tantrums in grocery stores. The trees around me, they were dormant a few weeks back, dormant and bare. Their winter hibernation was building up radiant color for the spring renewal. Now they are alive with color, different vibrant colors. Each one is completely unique. Just like us – I think as I round the corner and press myself up the hill. My lungs are getting heavier now with the humid spring air. They are just like us. No comparisons, no apologies, just shining our most beautiful colors. One tree is purple and the next one is a bright, almost neon, green. The purple tree with the fragrant soft buds faces the green tree. Does it wonder if it should be green too? Do the other trees expect it to be green? In front of the purple and green trees were two smaller trees that had yet to bloom. They were twigs, jetting out of the trunk and pregnant with buds. They looked like old, arthritic fingers – like the grandparents I imagine are buried underneath. That is really all I want to imagine, grandparents and great grandparents that lived long, joyous lives, not the ones whose dates I shudder to do the math on. The twig trees seemed oddly proud of the way it formed a branch web over the purple and green tree. It was as if they knew they hadn’t even begun to reach their potential.

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Order In Chaos

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
April 2, 2017

I crave the satisfaction of being able to check something off of my to do list. Anything. I am bouncing around the house trying to pick up the scatter of clutter that easily accumulates with each passing minute, while never quite rejoicing in the victory of having an entire room clean. There is still one thing left to do that leads to another and another. I cleaned the babies’ room, but the mess of clothes is still sitting on the dresser; I cleaned the kitchen but there is still a rack of dishes to dry and put away. I sit in my room, trying to get into writing mode. My headphones are in tact, cancelling out the chaos that is my husband and my children trying to navigate a world I am absent from, even if for just an hour. My headphones block the after school chatter, the toddlers demanding to watch TV, Josh taking over the kitchen and I am hiding from the chaos. All of it – centered on our disorganized family in our disorganized little life. What is it like to have four kids? Complete fucking chaos, all the time. My corner of our house, my room, is a complete cluster of clothes that I keep putting off organizing – just like everything else.

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Blank Pages

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
March 9, 2017

To be absolutely clear: I need to write like I need to breathe. Inhale and exhale the words onto the page, a release of expression, aaah so freeing. I say anything I want. As I am still navigating my way through this new life, I take pride in the evolution of the process. But seriously, how do I ever find any time to write? I actually get this question quite often. I have four kids and as many jobs, and routine dedication to writing is an ongoing attempt to manage my sanity, to compress my anxiety and filter out the toxic thoughts. I fear the person I will become if I don’t write. (The person I was). Write in the morning. I tell myself. Write at night. Write while the kids are eating lunch, write while they are playing outside. In reality, I scamper through my house with my notebook tucked under my arm, trying to jot a few things down, hopeful for a prompt for later or a feeling that just needed to come out.

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Hair

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
January 29, 2017

I am suddenly very aware of my hair. I tilt my head to the side and run my fingers through it as my thought process begins to rev up, like an old car on a snowy morning. I twirl a strand around my thumb and slide my index finger around the smooth edge created by my knuckle. The rhythm of writing begins as my pen dances along the page in the same speed of twirling hair. One hand writes and the other twirls hair. That is how I think, how I navigate through my cluttered brain. I imagine my mom is sitting in her chair watching reruns of King of Queens doing the same thing. Thinking. Twirling. Thinking. We really need to stop doing that, she says out of habit for as long as I can remember. I am suddenly very aware how long my hair has gotten. It is always getting too long, it grows way too fast. I am ready for a cut, a change. It is a scarf, a means to hide things, a security blanket I have been wearing for a while now. I stop writing for a minute and make an appointment at the salon.

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