Category Archives: just because

Today is August 14, 2017. I am alive and well.

Wearing makeup is an apology for our actual faces.  Cynthia Heimel

This quote struck me as hilarious. I’m not certain why. And then, I had to decide if I agreed with it or not.

Coincidently (which I don’t really believe in coincidences), I read an article in Glamour magazine today while walking on the treadmill at the gym that was about wearing makeup to the gym. The article targeted the population of people who judge those women who wear makeup as being vain. This population often thinks it’s bad or sad that women are moved to do so. In all honesty, I fell into that category until the article changed my mind.

The article stressed feeling good about the self in all situations. It stated that the women who wore makeup to the gym felt prettier for having done so, thus trained harder. It would have never occurred to me to think of it that way.

Cosmeticians even make makeup that is specifically for the gym; makeup that allows the skin to breathe, not clogging pours. Then of course, there is water proof mascara for those who sweat a great deal.

So, do I agree that “makeup is an apology for our actual faces?” I am saddened that the standard of beauty for women seems to include makeup. It would be nice to see models bare their skin occasionally. I have tremendous respect for Alicia Keyes, the singer, who decided to not wear makeup. That said, I consider makeup an art. It’s not to apologize but it is too alter.

From my own experience, I needed to give up makeup for a period of time. Between the ages of 16-18, I wore a lot of makeup because I modeled. I was so brain washed to think that makeup was necessary that I couldn’t go to the grocery store at five in the morning without it. I stopped wearing it so I could return to myself.

Today, I don’t wear any because I don’t want to take the time to apply it. I don’t want the extra expense. I want to be able to rub my eyes and scratch my face and not leave makeup on the shoulder of anyone I hug.

Joy to those who wear makeup and joy to those who don’t. I just hope that those who do wear makeup are at peace with their actual face.

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Today is February 21, 2016. I am alive and well.

I want to have a party with fake alcohol and see how many people act like they’re wasted; rum, not rum, roars through the thin man who pinches the breasts of the host. She giggles, then slaps him after coming to her senses–the slap smells of beef, a fingerprint left on his cheek.

I want to repay all the kindnesses my friends have shown me all their lives. A sunflower bends at the neck in welcome. I hand out handkerchiefs, love wrapped ¬†in knots of stripes and polka dots–it is simple.

I want to travel the world bagging people’s groceries. A stick of butter rubs skin with a potato in London. The jolly man in Brazil grins with green jello the color of palm leaves. Canned beets are slippery in Seattle. A banana rots at the foot of an onion in Germany. Radishes remain the dirty spice that they are everywhere I go.

I want to say meow during a speech. All the dogs will riot when they learn the bill won’t pass the Senate; it’s a matter of boxers wearing helmets in the ring, the blood loss would be cut in half with the ear out of the way.

I want to believe in God. God has come to me in the form of a twisted branch in a tree three stories high. Leaves rejoice!

I want to have a story worth telling. I wake to the woman mowing the grass outside my open bedroom window, smell the grass, chamomile with a touch of honey. Paint a purple mustache on my niece’s doll. Ask her where Ken’s head is.

I want to take a cute girl to the moon. She smiles as I strap her into the card board box. The stereo explodes with the sound of flame. I tell her “close your eyes and imagine cheese.” In no time, we hear mail being dropped through the door’s slot and know we are still grounded. The moon is another dream, like cows pirouetting to Greenday’s Awesome as Fuck.

I want to go to a city where nobody knows me and act like a completely different person. My name will be Betty, an easy name, one I will recognize on a stranger’s tongue. I will wear boots and smoke cigarettes and smile only in the grocery store from where I buy slices of cake. My downfall is butter cream frosting. I like it on toast in this new life of mine.