November 1,
2006
Curb
Appeal: Too Comfortable in My Own Skin
About every
third house in my neighborhood is for sale right now, so my husband and
I have been discussing the concept of curb appeal. Our Realtor – whom we
trust and adore – once told us that improving curb appeal was crucial to
the selling process.
Well, it’s
a good thing we aren’t selling any time soon, and it’s an even better
thing that I’m not “on the market” either. I’m happily married, and over
the past few weeks, I’ve come to realize too many similarities between
my yard and myself.
Here’s the
thing. Our yard is a mess. Leaves are everywhere. There’s even a kayak
underneath them – I know there is – I just have to find it! Every day,
I get home from work, pull into the driveway and think to myself, “We
should really do something about this yard.”
Then I step
inside. There, my dog greets me with a wagging tail and a sloppy kiss.
My four-month-old son smiles the biggest smile a baby can muster, and
his little arms and legs wiggle with excitement. And everything outside
of the four walls of our house is long forgotten, until tomorrow’s
three-second driveway entrance.
I do the
same thing in the mirror every morning. I look at myself, and think
something like, “I really should do something about this pot belly.” (On
this particular day, I chose my arms to focus on. Yeah, I should really
lift some weights!). Then, I leave for work, sing Tom Petty songs on the
trip, greet coworkers who are great and sit down at my state-of-the-art
laptop and do what I love.
I’m a lucky
girl. But just like my yard that’s been left neglected for three years,
have I become too comfortable in my own body, letting it sit unimproved
because I figure I’m so happy on the inside, why should I care? The
similarities between me and my yard are starting to scare me.
For
example, weeds are like stray eyebrow hairs. I barely notice them until
one shows up in a weird place. I certainly don’t pluck them relentlessly
in the pursuit of perfection. Instead, I’ll only pull the ones that are
obviously out of place. Like the one that grew on the bridge of my nose
last week. Or the weed that finally got as tall as my mailbox and could
no longer be avoided.
My
fingernails are like the empty hooks that our previous homeowner left
for hanging baskets. It would be easy to spruce them up with a dash of
color. Red nails, red flowers. But alas, hanging baskets need to be
watered, don’t you know? And when red fingernails chip, you can’t let it
go. You have to do something about it! But empty hooks and naked nails?
Surely, I’m the only one who notices their dullness.
My ponytail
is like the branches we cut off our trees last year. We didn’t do it to
beautify the place. We did it because we’re lazy. The fewer braches,
the fewer leaves to rake! The fewer days I wear my hair down, the fewer
blow-drying escapades I must endure.
About three
times a year, I get myself a pedicure or a facial. And about three times
a year, I decide I hate my garden, and I take a pair of clippers out and
start chopping at the crazy ivy that’s killing the rest of the plants.
Neither of these moves are enough to make a real difference, mind you,
but just enough to satisfy my rare cravings for aesthetic achievement.
So, that’s
that. My home is the same as my body – the inside is a happy, calm
place, but from the outside, you’d think mass chaos was the norm. It’s
just too bad that within five or six years our house will need new
siding. For me, I guess that means I better start saving for plastic
surgery!
© 2006 North Star Writers
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