Now and then, something happens -- or even better, a bunch of somethings all at once -- that brings me face-to-face with my karma.
Take the other night at the mall... (and I promise if you hang in there through this whole rant, you'll be visually rewarded at the end.)
The only thing I hate more than shopping is doing it at a mall. So, there are no reasonable explanations as to why I was in one in the first place the night before Valentine's Day. Let's just say I was under the influence of my Editor and we had some time to kill before a dinner reservation. Sort of like climbing a mountain, we went to the mall because it was there.
If it had indeed been a mountain that we'd climbed, I'm pretty sure what happened next equates to our ropes snapping.
After we got over how fun it was to use the "family" bathroom together, we were confronted by the incessant hum of the throng. He wanted to look at watches. I wanted to photograph the crowd. We were like a couple of raccoons at the patio door, gazing into both our reflections and this other world at the same time.
"Let's go try on expensive clothes," he suggested with gusto. His effort to steer me from mindlessly staring at people and to – as my mom always said – shut my mouth and stop catching flies worked as we headed directly to Nordstrom's, gliding first through the $300 skimpy aqua dresses to the shimmering whacked out shoes (I didn't even bother to look at those price tags...) I found myself speechless, other than managing an occasional 'oooh' here and there.
My thoughtful Editor, with his refined history and all, gently steered me through the colorful melange, echoing my scattered exclamations as if to validate my sensory intoxication. It was awful nice of him -- he could've just as well sniffed at me to get over myself.
"I know. Let's go find the cosmetics," he offered, knowing something of my secret history.
You'd never know it to look at me now, but I was once a purveyor of beauty. (Remember, I promised a reward for your patient reading...)
I did more than my share of face-painting in my early 20's, for fun and profit. While I was fine with an occasional grocery store foray sans color, my eyebrows were always ON and nary a dancefloor saw my face without a full mustering of the enhancement troops. During college, I worked in a finer department store for one of the finest brands. Years after that, I was in line for the red sportscar that comes before the pink Cadillac. I did a handful of friends' faces for weddings and photos. There are few remaining photos of my own personal canvas, but those that exist show a remarkably fresher moi.
I wasn't sure if I should take his suggestion personally or not, but my previously mesmerized mood immediately shifted into determined over-drive.
"Makeup, I can do!" I announced, and the Editor followed hurriedly as the scent led me directly down the escalators. "Just keep those women away from me."
Asking questions as he trailed behind, my valiant escort attempted to comprehend my babbling about years past and "those women" when I spotted my gleaming destination: the Cosmetics Territory. "There it is!" I beamed, and quickly surveying the multitude of dyed heads bobbing in, out, and between the shining counters, I determined an entry point where I could dart in, play with makeup, and never be spotted by The Enemy.
My plan was foiled by an unwitting, well-meaning Editor.
No sooner had we arrived at Wonderland's edge when one of Them, dressed in pseudo-clinical attire, smiled at us with outstretched arms. In less than a second, I was sizing up my sidestep. Those little vials in her hand were unmistakable, even if neither the Editor nor I understood her uttered greeting. Ever the gentleman, though, the Editor politely moved closer, inviting her to repeat herself.
"Cosmeceuticals?" she queried with manufactured warmth as she batted her eyelashes and waved the vials toward me.
The Editor may be polite, but he's no dummy. He turned away from her to face me, where I stood a good six feet from him and his new compadre, and in unison our eyes widened and jaws dropped.
"Cosmeceuticals?!" he repeated, barely stifling a guffaw in my direction, as I jammed to a speechless halt.
It's tough enough to let your white hair go natural before you're 40. Add to that years of nosy public queries about my “grandson” (aka my son) and the fact that some of the men in my life are considerably younger than I am, and well, you wind up with an overly sensitive middle-aged broad.
I made no effort at stifling myself as I spat "No! No!" in her direction, vehemently shaking my head and fairly frantically searching for an exit, which I found and headed swiftly toward. All I'd wanted was to play with makeup, not patch every crevice in my face.
It took us about an hour, a hasty retreat to the Jeep, and a soothing visit to a nearby park to recover from the assault. Well, okay, it took me that long. He was fine, even revved up by the cosmeceutical encounter, albeit jarred by the entire Consumers Gone Wild scene in the mall itself.
I rail against the Marketing Gods as a near-daily activity. I resigned long ago to accept Their dominion, all the while striving to live a life of conscious choices. Still, I don't care what I might project -- this aging thing is kicking my ass.
And now, as promised, for your viewing pleasure: proof that I was once Cosmetic Royalty...
Take the other night at the mall... (and I promise if you hang in there through this whole rant, you'll be visually rewarded at the end.)
The only thing I hate more than shopping is doing it at a mall. So, there are no reasonable explanations as to why I was in one in the first place the night before Valentine's Day. Let's just say I was under the influence of my Editor and we had some time to kill before a dinner reservation. Sort of like climbing a mountain, we went to the mall because it was there.
If it had indeed been a mountain that we'd climbed, I'm pretty sure what happened next equates to our ropes snapping.
After we got over how fun it was to use the "family" bathroom together, we were confronted by the incessant hum of the throng. He wanted to look at watches. I wanted to photograph the crowd. We were like a couple of raccoons at the patio door, gazing into both our reflections and this other world at the same time.
"Let's go try on expensive clothes," he suggested with gusto. His effort to steer me from mindlessly staring at people and to – as my mom always said – shut my mouth and stop catching flies worked as we headed directly to Nordstrom's, gliding first through the $300 skimpy aqua dresses to the shimmering whacked out shoes (I didn't even bother to look at those price tags...) I found myself speechless, other than managing an occasional 'oooh' here and there.
My thoughtful Editor, with his refined history and all, gently steered me through the colorful melange, echoing my scattered exclamations as if to validate my sensory intoxication. It was awful nice of him -- he could've just as well sniffed at me to get over myself.
"I know. Let's go find the cosmetics," he offered, knowing something of my secret history.
You'd never know it to look at me now, but I was once a purveyor of beauty. (Remember, I promised a reward for your patient reading...)
I did more than my share of face-painting in my early 20's, for fun and profit. While I was fine with an occasional grocery store foray sans color, my eyebrows were always ON and nary a dancefloor saw my face without a full mustering of the enhancement troops. During college, I worked in a finer department store for one of the finest brands. Years after that, I was in line for the red sportscar that comes before the pink Cadillac. I did a handful of friends' faces for weddings and photos. There are few remaining photos of my own personal canvas, but those that exist show a remarkably fresher moi.
I wasn't sure if I should take his suggestion personally or not, but my previously mesmerized mood immediately shifted into determined over-drive.
"Makeup, I can do!" I announced, and the Editor followed hurriedly as the scent led me directly down the escalators. "Just keep those women away from me."
Asking questions as he trailed behind, my valiant escort attempted to comprehend my babbling about years past and "those women" when I spotted my gleaming destination: the Cosmetics Territory. "There it is!" I beamed, and quickly surveying the multitude of dyed heads bobbing in, out, and between the shining counters, I determined an entry point where I could dart in, play with makeup, and never be spotted by The Enemy.
My plan was foiled by an unwitting, well-meaning Editor.
No sooner had we arrived at Wonderland's edge when one of Them, dressed in pseudo-clinical attire, smiled at us with outstretched arms. In less than a second, I was sizing up my sidestep. Those little vials in her hand were unmistakable, even if neither the Editor nor I understood her uttered greeting. Ever the gentleman, though, the Editor politely moved closer, inviting her to repeat herself.
"Cosmeceuticals?" she queried with manufactured warmth as she batted her eyelashes and waved the vials toward me.
The Editor may be polite, but he's no dummy. He turned away from her to face me, where I stood a good six feet from him and his new compadre, and in unison our eyes widened and jaws dropped.
"Cosmeceuticals?!" he repeated, barely stifling a guffaw in my direction, as I jammed to a speechless halt.
It's tough enough to let your white hair go natural before you're 40. Add to that years of nosy public queries about my “grandson” (aka my son) and the fact that some of the men in my life are considerably younger than I am, and well, you wind up with an overly sensitive middle-aged broad.
I made no effort at stifling myself as I spat "No! No!" in her direction, vehemently shaking my head and fairly frantically searching for an exit, which I found and headed swiftly toward. All I'd wanted was to play with makeup, not patch every crevice in my face.
It took us about an hour, a hasty retreat to the Jeep, and a soothing visit to a nearby park to recover from the assault. Well, okay, it took me that long. He was fine, even revved up by the cosmeceutical encounter, albeit jarred by the entire Consumers Gone Wild scene in the mall itself.
I rail against the Marketing Gods as a near-daily activity. I resigned long ago to accept Their dominion, all the while striving to live a life of conscious choices. Still, I don't care what I might project -- this aging thing is kicking my ass.
And now, as promised, for your viewing pleasure: proof that I was once Cosmetic Royalty...
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