Walking my dog at the first light of day, I shudder to think what I look like. Locks of hair stick straight up, my face is unwashed, flecked with day-old mascara. I’m in frayed, ill-matched, baggy sweats. When someone walks by, I don’t always make eye contact, given my state of disrepair. But I can’t get enthused about primping for the neighborhood. How much should we clean up before leaving the house?
Image: Stefan Sagmeister [1]