June Cleaver was a doormat. I’m a door-slammer.
But we have one thing in common: we both believe that you should dress for your man.
I’ve never met my guy at the door in something lacy (but it’s on my to-do list.) I don’t own a pair of foofoo slippers. And ever since my boobs went south after breastfeeding, I had to retire my glittery tube tops. But… I’m no slob either.
European women have us pinned to the mat in the “make an effort” category. They make North American women look like… slobs in Crocs and ponytails and sweatpants. I think that va-va-va-voom we mustered up to get the man, too often fades. And va-va-va-voom is good for the soul.
I vowed to myself when I got married that I would forever endeavor to be The Sexy Wife. I would not let myself go. It’s not easy. I gained about fifty pounds with my first baby. There were times when I was too broke to buy a pretty new bra, in which case, hi-lights and a bikini wax were also out of the question. I worked sixty-hour weeks for months and raised a toddler that didn’t really sleep.
But no matter, I remember my sexy wife vow and before the hunk came home, I’d whip some goop in my hair, dab on my amber oil, and get some lip-gloss on my kisser. I still looked exhausted, but I my devotion made up for the circles under my eyes.
Sparkle Determination ripples out.
Your appearance tells the world how to treat you. When you take care of yourself, life tends to pitch in.
When you aim to shine, life pays proper attention to you–and that includes your lover boy (or girl.)
And lest you think I’m taking the feminist movement back two decades, know that I expect that same Look Fine Commitment from my dude. He knows that his chances of getting lucky increase with spicy cologne and a pressed linen shirt.
Even June Cleaver would swoon.