My guest of the past month is dresser-supreme. She would have made a fantastic model, had she chosen to be one. She dresses for herself, and not (as much) for others. She wakes up picture perfect – not a hair out of place, and as soon as she brushes her teeth, she brushes her long, silky, streaked hair until it shines with blinding brilliance and applies nice smelling stuff on her face so that she emerges from the bathroom like a cat walker. She accessorises her nightwear, and when she has to step out of the house to throw out the trash, she looks like she is meeting the American president for state dinner. I once saw her apply makeup and wondered how she remembered what goes after what and in which part of her face.
The line between passion and obsession depends on the perceiver’s judgemental opinion. Lest you judge her as being shallow, she has a high flying job, is a dedicated parent to two boys, keeps her home spotless, volunteers for a bunch of things, is a social diva, a perfectionist in everything she touches, a terrific cook and would be a successful dancer if she chose to resume her practice.
But the point of this post is not her, at least not entirely.
When I awoke this morning – you must know that I awaken like I have just survived an earthquake, and remain that way until a few gallons of coffee have been assimilated – and looked into the mirror (mirror mirror on the wall, and the mirror cracked), my face looked like it was dug out of a cemetery. Finding a bottle of calamine lotion that my neighbour loaned me to treat the wasp sting of last weekend, I figured that while I can’t look like my ex-guest if I had a gun pointed to my head, I could attempt to at least look presentable and fresh with a potentially harmless emulsion of zinc oxide and ferric oxide, which even grandmother used in decades past.
Thus, I transferred a drop of the pink goo into my palm, and as I applied it over my face, it miraculously expanded to fill the large surface area of the contoured surface. The mirror was not very cooperative and instead of a bright, glowing face that I expected to see, I saw a dead-as-before, but oily-to-boot-now, face staring back. And then the party began. In a surge of an internally generated thermal wave that put my monthly infernal heat flashes to shame, perspiration poured from the recently anointed face, and by the time I mopped the flooding, the skin burned like a stake during inquisition, and I dumped my face into a bucket of cold water to stop it from melting off my bones.
There is truth in the saying “Just be yourself”. Don’t know why I forget it now and then. Must be PMS. Everything is PMS.