Feeling Frumpy

Last night I made the bad decision to stay up till eleven, watching Southern Charm and drinking Coors Light. The bad part isn't watching crap reality TV or drinking crap (but very satisfying) beer. The bad part was staying up till eleven.
George has turned into an unpredictable sleeper lately. He wakes up during the night, and then I wake up to put him back to sleep. I'm not awake all night, but its a night of frequently interrupted sleep. I'm not recharged in the morning, and George's sleep regression is leaving me feeling run down.
Last night, when eight o'clock rolled around, and both the kids were asleep, I should have curled up in bed, anticipating waking up hours later by a crying baby.
The slight adrenaline rush of having personal time propelled me to turn on the TV and get a cold brewski. After I watched 2 episodes, I figured I might as well finish the next three episodes available On Demand.
The show isn't even that great. It is basically a bunch of rich people living the life of leisure, while criticizing each other. One character, Whitney, who seems a bit like Price Geoffrey from Game of Thrones, calls another character white trash because he thought she "trapped" his rich ass friend by having a baby with him.
I haven't heard "white trash" in a while, and didn't see how it fit describing this red head vixen dressed in Channel and Miu Miu. It becomes clear why Whitney calls people "white trash" after we meet his mother; a socialite who looks like Elizabeth Taylor, wearing a silk robe with boa trim, the picture of perfection, until she opens her mouth. She tops the white trash criticism by saying, "Sure, she proved her 200 year lineage, but she is the result of poor breeding."
Ouch!
Maybe it's because I am so tired, but after watching five hours of beautiful people dressed impeccably, looking down on the poorly bred, I feel really gross and think my look is blah. After telling my sister I need a makeover, I describe myself as white trash. She could only reply to the unusual and harsh comment, that I sound hormonal.
It's a culmination of things; my hair looks like shit because I need to dye my roots, I prefer bare feet, and sitting under the sun in my lawn chair is heavenly. My panache for Coors Light resonates from a fun loving past, but it's because more expensive beers, like IPA,  get me shit faced in less than a 6 pack.
Maybe it isn't right to be fat and happy, or tan and relaxed, or bare foot and chasing kids, because these things lead to a judgmental eye from the sad saps wearing feather boas in their bed having breakfast alone. She might comment on muffin tops, or wrinkles around the eyes, or even the unruliness of happy children, but it is the comforts of her solitude that fulfill her visions of grandeur.
When I manage to get my hair dyed I will feel much better. If anything, reality TV has taught me, especially the lovely ladies on The Real Housewives of Melbourne, who love to say, "Darling," is that "any woman who feels beautiful, feels good."
Going to bed early is critical to my beauty health, so I have to get to the hair dying after I get some better sleep. I won't fret about the bare feet or the wrinkles now. Notice how I don't stress on Coors Light, that's the result of poor breeding.

Selfies when feel frumpy