Widda Attire

I’m a girly gal to my curly headed, highlighted roots. I used to relish shopping for cute threads and anticipating the wearing of them. I adored strategizing my outfits, spackling on my makeup, and coiffing my ‘do. Seriously, my heart would go all fluttery scoping out the aisles of Ulta or Sephora…

And faster than you can say, “double burial plots,” I became a hot mess.

Ah, the unimaginative, yet comfy thing that is the widda wardrobe. As soon as my funeral dress was doffed, my go-to uniform of choice is track pants, tee shirts, and hoodie jackets.

And those are the days when I make it out of my pajamas.

Makeup is relegated to special occasions: lunch out with my parents or the in-laws, my nephews’ birthday parties, and the like. The mass of curls that is my hair is either in a messy bun (no, not the trendy cute ones you see on YouTube tutorials) or a pony tail. Hygiene is fairly intact, but I’m not gonna play like there aren’t days you could grate parmesan cheese on my leg stubble

So, what the hell happened?

The overwhelming malaise and apathy that comes from being widowed, that’s what! Grief obliterates your drive, saps your energy, and let’s not forget that it’s not as if you have now have anyone coming home in the evening you’d like to impress. ..or entice.

So, cue the stretchy pants! I’ve finally made peace with it. Will I return to my once quasi – glam ways? I hope so, because that’s a hallmark of the old me– the me I may never fully be again–but I’d like to get back to at least a semblance or version of her.

Anyway, widda peeps–give yourself a break. You’ve been through the wringer. Now is not the time for preoccupation with your outer image. It’s your inner being that needs extra TLC.

And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, that not even Solomon, in all his splendor, was dressed like one of these. –Matthew 6:28-29



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