North Star Writers Group

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!

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This is Column # CD18. Request permission to publish here.