The Cracks Begin to Show

Last weekend was particularly noteworthy. After a productive morning and an afternoon nap, my husband and I went out to a bar to for a party in honor of our newly engaged set of friends. Meeting parents and family members inevitably followed and I still need to know about Blake’s mom’s skincare regimen, as I originally thought she was his older sister. Tucking my phone away for the night to conserve battery to call for a ride home, I was able to stay in the moment. It was a wonderful thing.

Our thirty-something selves left around nine pm as we committed to ourselves that we would. Two Tylenol PM and some Frasier on Netflix and we were asleep by eleven pm. The next morning we woke up to the remnants of Winter Storm Gia. It was early enough that I had the idea to go to our neighborhood Green Eggs Cafe. We had never been but the line for the wait is typically just too long to even consider. I called to verify whether they were open (they were) and whether there was a wait (negative). With that, we each threw on an outfit and boots and we were on our way to beat the inevitable Sunday brunch crowd.

I took observation of my appearance as we walked past a mirror in our lobby and out of our building. Bedhead hair barely tamed with earband, leggings, sleepers in my eyes behind a pair of sunglasses. I would have been more concerned about my appearance but as it was relatively early in Philadelphia for a Sunday at least, my mind was focused on eggs.

After a short walk during which we enjoyed the light blanket of snow, we were seated immediately and each served big mugs of black coffee. I commented about having such a fantastic weekend and despite a fifteen minute rush to get to the restaurant, a relaxing morning. It may have been the best morning we had in recent memory as we were able to stop, reflect, relax and just enjoy the simplicity of a Sunday morning.

About halfway through my mug of coffee, I looked down into the black abyss and noticed a crack in my mug. The crack did not make the coffee any less delicious or effective. It was the perfect metaphor for how I looked versus how I felt that morning: to the outsider I likely looked like a mess but for the first time in awhile on the inside I felt great and could not have been happier.

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Life is not always about the perfect blowout and put-together ensembles. This part of my life is not necessarily one that I share, but these moments tend to be at my happiest, leggings, bedhead, and all.

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