My first week as a senator’s spouse, I was invited to lunch with several other wives and informed not only of my “duties,” but was handed a list of all the senators. Each name either highlighted or crossed out, indicating who we should and shouldn’t speak to.

When I told my husband about it he said the whole thing was ridiculous and I should just do what I wanted. What great advice!

Of course I ignored it completely and started my evolution from Farm Girl

To Senate Spouse

Fast-forward fourteen years and my husband’s decided to retire from the Senate, which means I get to evolve out of my Senate Wife persona. I can be/wear whatever I darn well please. Only… I don’t know what I darn well want to wear anymore.

On the last day of my recent trip to the east coast, I was packing my suitcase and I realized that if an archeologist examined this bag he’d deduce that the woman who packed it was a schizophrenic.

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The first layer of the archeological dig would reveal that I’m still unable to completely let go of the Senate Spouse Uniform so had packed the same type starched shirt I’d worn for fourteen years.

but got a little wild with the skirts.

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The next layer in the suitcase revealed a hippie phase.  I can still remember wearing long flowing skirts and baggy sweaters.  Maybe I should try that again?

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I’ve never been a person to wear sparkles, but was it time to start?

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Probably, I’m a gritty urban woman who wears earth tones to blend in.

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Then again, maybe I want to stand out.

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What the?  Now I’ve transformed into a clown?

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When I got home, I eventually evolved into a new personality – The R-Teest.  One filled with flowing tops and black leggings.  Now this was a uniform I could stick with. Kicking it up a notch, I layered on multiple sets of jewelry and scarves until I looked like a blinged out, multicolored popsicle walking around on two short black sticks.

Then, Saturday night the consequences of such a carefree and comfortable uniform bit me in the…uh…ego.

I had one last senate dinner to attend and when I tried to slip on my old uniform, nothing fit. First, I squirmed into my industrial strength Spanx, after which I barely managed to get the top button of my slacks secured. Then, I struggled in to a starched shirt (unable to fasten the last button around my stomach), added a sweater and, hoping to camouflage my middle, topped it all with a jacket.

Evidently my latest evolution of a crazie personality has a downside.   When you always wear pants with elastic in the waist, it seems you magically believe you can have ice cream and chocolate after every meal without any consequences.

Will this setback stop the evolutionary process?  I hope not.  I certainly don’t want to end up a wooly mammoth stuck in a tar pit one day.

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Crazie Camper Caper Update:  My 1955 Aljoa is still stuck in the camper hospital as they try to repair her enough to get her road worthy.  I’d wanted to add running water, but when the estimate climbed to over $500 I decided I could do without it.  Also, after carefully considering my budget ($0.00) I’ve discovered I won’t have enough funds to have her painted just yet.  The upside of this, is that it meant I could finally come up with a name for her.  The Ugly Duckling.  

I’m sure we’ll survive just fine until I can afford to turn her into a swan – speaking of which, click the picture of my book on the right of this blog and buy it – please? (Nice segue, huh?)