Mar
25
I think I am far more self conscious than vain, but really, they amount to the same sort of behaviors: mirror-peering, hair-fiddling, fingernail-examining. I have a Covergirl compact—oh, that nostalgic drugstore-powdery smell—which I keep at my desk in order to click it open approximately ten thousand times per day and . . . what, exactly? Make sure I’m still there? I suppose I think I’m checking to make sure there’s nothing caught between my teeth or some such explainable behavior, but often I find myself transfixed by a catalogue of flaws revealed by the natural light pouring from the window behind me. A creeping network of lines, the visible surface of makeup settling into creases, dark crescents under my eyes, this overall sense of sag that seems to have become so prevalent in the last year or so.
Sometimes I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and place the tips of my index fingers high up on my cheekbones, just so, and pull ever so slightly up and back. A millimeter, maybe less. Just that tiny adjustment makes such a difference, my god. The skin is smoothed, the unpleasant parentheses that curve down from the side of my nose to the corners of my mouth are lessened. I look younger, I guess, although the effect feels less to me like rolling back the years and more like smoothing out a crumpled bedsheet to what it’s supposed to look like.
This faded, tired-looking woman—where did the color in my lips go? Where did that vertical line between my eyebrows come from? When did the soft elasticity of my skin get replaced with this new stuff that catches every shadow?—I must be her, and she is me, and this must be a natural part of getting older, but . . . well, but.
In some ways, I think I’m less focused on my appearance than I used to be. I don’t buy clothes or makeup very often any more; I’ve mostly lost interest in adornments like jewelry, shoes, and purses. The collection of shampoo containers that used to litter the floor of the shower have been replaced by a value-sized bottle of something-or-other from Costco. I look at my scritchy, running-callused feet with their unpainted toenails and shrug: what’re you gonna do?
I’m not sure if I’ve adjusted my values or if I’ve simply become cheap and lazy. Maybe a little of both.
Still, the body’s wear and tear does not please me. I know I should accept these matters, that it’s impossible to hold back what comes naturally without vigilant effort, large amounts of money, and a good dash of luck. It’s shallow and pointless and why focus on the surface details when there are so many more rich and interesting aspects to life, so many other ways to feel good about yourself? It’s ridiculous to obsess over the fact that I look like exactly what I am: a grown woman with a busy, rewarding life.
(But do you see how much better I look, do you see, if I just go like this?)
Mar
23
For anyone who thought I was giving credit where it wasn’t necessarily due yesterday when I talked about JB being such an awesome caregiver with sick kids, let me add that he is also, as it turns out, a fantastic and calming presence if it becomes necessary to take a listless, dehydrated toddler to the ER.
I surely hope that was the one and only time we carry one of our children through the bright red EMERGENCY doors of a hospital, and I’m equally thankful we weren’t there for something (even more) terrifying.
Oh, parenthood. My god, there’s just not enough Xanax in the world.
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