In six months, I’ll be 40. I wish I could say I’ve never felt better. But my memory’s not that sharp anymore.
I’ve noticed I’m no longer as young as I think I am. This epiphany usually happens when I look in the mirror, a habit I’m trying to lose.
I don’t wear a lot of makeup, but recently I forked out $40 for a tube of concealer. I walked into the makeup store (you know, the one with lighting that makes it look like a bar on the Starship Enterprise).
I glanced around, a tourist trying to get my bearings.
A woman with dark cascading curls and airbrushed skin approached me. Her lab coat made me think of dissection.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I stepped back in an attempt to avoid her eyelashes.
“I’m looking for something that will hide the dark circles under my eyes.”
She observed me, a specimen under her microscope. She paused, then turned on her red stilettos. “Follow me.”
“Try this,” she said, pulling out a tube the size of Crazy Glue. I took off my glasses. Using a Q-tip, she deposited a glob under one of my eyes. “Now dab it in.”
I started dabbing away like someone in need of a Xanax.
“Use your ring finger,” Professor Curls snapped.
I paused to look at my offending finger.
I started again with what I hoped was my ring finger. This process was taking a while.
“Now you’re rubbing. Dab…Like this.” She took over. “There, do you see how much better you look?”
I squinted into the mirror. I saw one partially-obscured semicircle. It reminded me of when my daughter draws a picture and tries to correct her mistake. She’s pressed the pencil so hard that even when she erases it, the original line is still visible, albeit slightly smudged and worn. Like me.
I put on my glasses. “I’ll take it,” I said.
“Can I interest you in anything else?” she asked, waving an acrylic nail around. “Perhaps some moisturizer? Anti-wrinkle serum?”
“Not today,” I muttered.
After I arrive home, I remove the product from its excess packaging.
Twenty minutes later, I finally have the tube in my hand. I push up my glasses and squint at the writing. The first thing I notice is that it’s made in France. This is a euphemism for “tack an extra $30 onto the price.”
The second thing I notice, in bifocals-only font, is the name of the cover up. It’s called, Extreme Camouflage Cream.
Apparently, the heavy-duty equipment’s been called out.
I’m going into battle.
How are the rest of you doing with aging? Any Xanax-inducing stories of makeup?