On my way out of my office today I caught my reflection and for a moment I didn't recognize myself.

I don't mean that in some lofty, introspective way. I really mean that for a moment the me that existed in my, well, head, and the person I saw in the mirror did not match up. In my head I was thinking about how much my thighs hurt from overdoing it at the gym on Saturday - 90 minutes of training and weight lifting - and maybe how dumb that was to do in light of having run an 8K the day before, and how it is that I push myself to do silly physical things like that, always have, because I always feel like I'm never doing enough, and as I hobbled towards the bathroom stall I looked up and I saw this ... woman looking back.

I was wearing a long, black trench coat with my Burberry scarf peeking out from underneath. When I was a little girl, my father wore a Burberry scarf to work downtown every day - well, every day that it was cold - and I always thought it was the height of sophistication, of professional-person-ism. I bought mine when I was in Ireland three years ago, when I'd had enough money to buy a real one of my own. It stands to reason that I'd quite consciously implement the scarf into my own professional persona as an adult, and I suppose it's always sort of irked me how trendy and fashionable Burberry became since the plaid first caught my eye, wrapped around my dad's neck.

Underneath were lined, brown-plaid, wool pants paired with a cream-colored, knit top. Both from Ann Taylor and as safe and as conservative a look as anyone could dream up. Sensible shoes, new glasses, and understated jewelry put it all together. Plus, I'd styled my hair that morning, newly colored by Scott's sister Jen Wednesday night, over much catching up and wine at the salon.

Somehow, my hair and makeup all remain in place after nine hours. When did that happen anyway? When did I have that sort of hair? That sort of makeup?

I don't know when I became this person altogether. I mean, clearly I had a hand in it all - this conservative, this safe, this sanitary look has been me for years now. After years of stops and starts, of trying on all sorts of identities, this is the one in which I seem most comfortable, the least awkward. I don't make apologizes anymore for showing up in what I tell Scott is my "Banana Republic Gear" because I feel, finally, OK being this person. I'm less fidgety, less awkward, less unsure of myself.

Admittedly I'm less bold, less risky than I was before I settled into this woman, but I think I've finally gotten tired of fighting who I wasn't with who I was. It doesn't mean I'm not startled and caught unaware by what I see sometimes, despite clearly having embraced it, embraced nice jeans, embraced a life without funky hair colors.

I grew up. That's all. Some days, however, it blindsides the hell out of me that it eventually happened.

Posted by Erin at 10:48 PM | filed under: Odds and ends