War Paint

Consciously, I know I am not going to war every morning I dip my magic wand into that tiny tube of ink-like goop and transform my eyelashes into little wisps of facial art. Of course, I understand that there won’t be any ceremonial dances or feasts that require special body markings and chants to go along with them today (tomorrow is always another story). Knowing this, I still maintain that this ritual of morning cosmetic prep work is essential to my daily well-being.

I’m positive there’s some quaint psychobabble out there to explain this “painting” habit; however, I detest such babble and much prefer to explore these things on my own. Remember the joy of opening up a new box of Crayola crayons? All of the beautiful colors (especially if it was a 64 count box) and the smell of fresh wax contained in such pristine points awaiting an artist’s hand. Anticipation of creation can be a very seductive feeling and, for the most part, this how I feel whenever I open one of my Lancôme palettes of pleasure. Perhaps crayons on paper doesn’t quite capture the feeling like perfectly executed liquid liner and lacquered lips, but I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one gets this rather juvenile enjoyment from applying makeup.

Smoky eyes, cat eyes, and (when I need a serious boost) high definition color block eyes are just a few of the masks I’ve mastered over the years. Like an old companion, my cosmetics have followed me through a variety of stages. There was the creamy matte lipstick stage, the purple eye shadow stage, the eyelashes painted in colors not found in nature stage, and my personal favorite; liner and shadow smudged so heavily that I looked like I slept in it for days. Somehow I felt that this last stage gave off the impression that my evenings were so exciting that I wound up in bed without a care in the world, much less taking the time for a freshly cleansed face. Well, that’s what I thought anyway.

War paint may not properly describe the affection I have toward my cosmetic case (who am I kidding; it’s more like a cosmetic closet in the bathroom). Sometimes it’s necessary to paint my face in order to face enemies like ex-spouses, ex-boyfriends, and ex-friends. Luckily, these situations do not serve as the foundation for my air-brush foundation. Rather, my affinity for makeup comes from the fact that it makes me feel put together and confident. And, if by some chance I’m feeling tribal and particularly bad-ass, I may just leave the house bare faced and free.

Observing Understudy

This is the fifth hour and the studio is veiled

In a film of sweaty stench as

Dancing goes on alone.

The pencil point turns are becoming blunt,

The shoulders droop like eyes after lullabies,

And there is wrongness in the body.

Stopping at the sound of

A whispering door,

Staring at the other arrivals in active assessment,

A dark chocolate bittersweet taste creeps into

The mouth as the understudy watches

A ballerina lose her balance.

Shoe Shopper or Predator?

I swoon (yes, I actually swoon) over shoes. It’s bad. According to some very intrepid friends of mine, my eyes glaze over in delight, my breathing becomes quickened, and on some occasions, my skin flushes. One may think I’ve had some sort of sexual encounter the moment my perfectly shod foot hits the shoe salon. Perhaps equating shoes to sex isn’t so far-fetched after all. There’s the thrill of the hunt, the fitting period (to see if things will be kosher between shoe and foot), and most importantly, the final assessment. Can I feel good about this transaction? Will I be able to walk tall or will I crumple because the bunions got the best of me.

There have been many attempts at explaining this phenomena to the people who cannot possibly fathom such a connection (usually they’re men, but I happen to know there are a few women out there who are happy with 2 or 3 pairs). While the thought of such a paltry amount of shoes makes me shudder, I want to make sure I am not coming across as some sort of Imelda Marcos wannabe. Rather, it’s more important to clarify this seemingly insane union between a woman and her footwear.

Everyone knows by now (I hope) what a good feeling it is to get a brand new pair of tennis shoes. Aside from being clean and supportive, they unwittingly offer possibilities to their new owner. For a brief moment we can run a little faster or jump a little higher. These possibilities exist across the whole spectrum of shoe designs. The potential held in my ballet slippers was practically palpable to everyone in a little run down dance shop in Kalamazoo, where pastel pink wasn’t just a color, but a way of life. My first pair of Havaianas flip flops led me to dream about living out my last days on Greek beaches surrounded by sunlight, music, and ex-pats. And, the pure elation derived from the fitting and purchasing of my first pair of Gucci pumps still makes me smile even though it’s been a healthy six years ago.

While I believe promise and possibilities are at the core of the shoe obsession, I also feel that the answer is quite simply that feet don’t change sizes very often. The rest of my body lets me down in the size department. I can’t even rely on my midsection to be the same one day to the next, much less one year to the next. Ah, but even if I’m more bloated than the guy who finished off his fourth plate of Polish buffet, at least I’ve got my trusty pumps, boots, jewel-encrusted sandals to make me feel capable, sophisticated, and less gassy.

So, to all future shoe salespeople (and naysayers) I may encounter I say this: Let me (and others like me) daydream. It’s not just shoe shopping; I’m trying on possibilities and sometimes, when I crave inspiration, all I have to do is look down.

Anti-Climax

If there was one day out of the whole year that could be described as a complete and utter letdown, then December 31st fits the bill. New Year’s Eve has been a sore spot with me since the time I was able to comprehend calendars and the gut-wrenching passing of time. Early on, the stroke of midnight on that evening promised magical things, but never delivered on those promises. As a child, and even a large portion of my adulthood, I believed there was a lot riding on that night time countdown in the dead of winter. After all, countdowns by their very nature lead to anticipation of something (usually) big or important. Marathons start, dynamite detonates, hell, even the space shuttle launches after a countdown. So, why, after several years with Dick Clark, did absolutely NOTHING happen once the ball dropped?



Please do not confuse my disappointment with sorrow. I’ve had a few wonderful New Year’s Eve moments. Playing games and drinking into the early hours of the New Year, well, I cannot really find fault with that. I’m all for celebrating anything and everything, and bringing in the New Year sounds as good as any other excuse to throw a party. In addition to the parties, I suppose New Year’s Eve serves another distinct purpose. There is something deeply satisfying (compulsive, perhaps a better word choice) about ticking off another year in the ever-present internal time keeping psyche. Our linear progression of time is like a security blanket of sorts. We can flip the calendar to the next scenic landscape/puppy dog/Dilbert and feel some kind of cosmic stability.



Maybe this is what the whole New York/New Year’s Eve mess is all about; cheering on our man-made relationship to time? Could be. Then again, why do it only once a year? The excitement, joy, and anticipation felt on the eve of December 31st should really be felt every evening. And, if that isn’t possible (realistically who feels anything but dread most days of November) then can someone please send me the sparks, fairy dust, and magic for New Year’s Eve. Actually, better make it for next year…I’m going to bed.