I’ve got crumbs in my Jimmy Choo bag. Greasy handprints on my jeans. Stones missing from my jewelry and stilettos begging to be seen. Remnants of a past life, shelved temporarily. I’ve got crumbs in my Jimmy Choo bag, and yet I feel so free.
Free from tiny pencil skirts and Spanx strangling my waist. Free from the fashion industry determining my tastes. It’s true that I spend most days in stretchy pants and T’s, not showering ‘til dusk, playing on my knees.
A full closet, but nothing to wear…for playground dates and such. No shoes to walk the extra mile or kick the soccer ball. Heels can’t bear the extra load of a toddler in my arms. It’s hard to run in sandals to keep little ones from harm.
Don’t get started on my drawers, granny panties, milk-stained bras, tanks that once allowed for easy feeding then promptly were all wrong. I feel like it’s been years now I’ve been singing this tired song.
Two and a half to be exact, almost three years I’ve been blessed. I don’t really recall the me before the toys and mess. He’s changed me for the better, of that I am sure. And I can’t recall a purse or shoes that I could have loved more.
Alas, I’m trading the purse in for a backpack. Dresses in for shorts. I’ve got crumbs in my Jimmy Choo bag, sitting lonely on the shelf, but I’ve gotta say I’ve grown to like this new version of myself.
