“I want to be a pretty girl.”
This is one of the things I say too often that is funny, but also dead ass serious, but wrapped up again with funny so that it doesn’t seem too serious. For me, that mostly means that I want to look put together and like I take care of myself. Hilariously true statement, when I was younger I just thought that women became glamorous when they hit 25. Surely it would magically happen for me. Well,…it did not. And so began the makeup years.
I made myself orange with effort trying to look attractive. Evidence of my labors were like self esteem clues. Foundation residue on my phone (so gross!). A drawer full of eye shadows that were never quite as awesome as I’d hope they were going to be. Too many lipsticks that were barely used because they weren’t quite right.
I remember very distinctly being at a meeting at the bank and seeing all the down turned mouths of the old guard. I thought that they must all be mad, disgruntled. etc. I vowed that would never be me. I’m sorry to them for misjudging. Motherfuckin’ time makes your mouth turn down regardless of how you feel about the new sales quotas.
Then one day as I sat in another meeting, in another setting a very different thought occurred to me No, it was not “boy, I should really start paying attention in my meetings.” It was, “why do the men at this meeting just have their red spots on their skin without feeling some need to cover it up?” And so I stopped most the makeup. If Dave and Larry can get through their day without foundation, by golly, so can I. I’m not sure if this was a moment of maturity and acceptance, or a moment of giving up.
I feel like I still tried to clean up. I comb my hair on many days. I put some dead dinosaur product on my eyelashes. I still want to be pretty. I don’t know why. If there’s a point in emotional maturation where a person no longer has that desire, I’ve not yet hit it. I don’t need attention, but I also don’t want to disappear. If that makes sense.
So with that hope in mind, earlier this week I called the dermatologist and lucked out in getting a same day appointment for a mild chemical peel. Never had one before, but the process seemed simple: brush shit on, wipe it off, go back to work, wait for miracle of skin regeneration.
And then, the universe rich in irony decided to teach me a lesson on vanity. Hard. “Oh. You’re after a change in your skin? I got you.”
The peel “went more aggressive than anticipated” for reasons unknown by the incredibly apologetic team at the place. I look like a cross between a chipmunk and a sugar crisp cereal puff. I’m swollen and scabby. There’s enough fluid in my face that it jiggles when I walk. For real. I can’t smile nor see over my swollen cheeks. My face is jacked up. The doctor assured me it will be okay. But in the meantime, I get to proudly wear the badges of “I’m vain” and “I want to be pretty girl.” Got it universe. Message received.
I considered moving out of the country until my skin recovered, but naw. It would be an injustice not to capitalize on a conversation starter of this magnitude, right?
The purpose of this entry is not to compliment fish. I will fake punch you in the throat if anyone starts that. The purpose is that now that my insecurities have been forced in to the open, maybe it can open a dialogue about all of ours. It’s okay to want to look nice. It’s okay to make efforts to do that. It’s also okay when those efforts fail horribly. It’s called taking your lumps and it’s nature’s way of keeping self-importance in check. I will embrace it, and hope that embarrassment brings a lovely hue to my cheeks.
Bifocals and Barbells 