Make Up!

I am putting on Andy's shoes, a process that involves running him down and then distracting him long enough to get him to sit on my knee or stand while I wrestle his foot into his shoes. This brings our faces pretty close together, and I am never surprised when he reaches out and grabs my face to contort my features into funnier versions.

But today Andy looks at me and asks "Mom, what's on your face?"

And my heart sinks. "It's make up," I reply.

"Oh."

Oh.

Yes, I have started wearing make-up.

I have never been a make-up person. AS a teenager, I was always VERY aware of make-up on my face, so I never wore it. And I never really needed to. In my twenties, make-up was restricted to fancy events, and even then it was usually just a little eye-liner and lip stick. I guess I felt that one day I would begin making my face up every day, but that day seemed far, far off in the future.

The other day I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the middle of the day, and I was very surprised at what I saw. This reflection, it wasn't mine. The hair was wild and frizzy (ok, that could be me) but the eyes were just so tired and poofy. No, not me. That person was old. That person needed to do something with herself because she was falling apart.

And it really made me sad. Because I'm really careful about washing my face and moisturizing, and that was supposed to keep my skin looking youthful forever. So I tried applying make-up, but I ran into another problem: I don't know how. Oh, sure I have a technique, but it's the one I learned when I was thirteen and my friend Larissa sat me down with an article I think she got in Cosmo and we practiced applying. I've been doing it the same way ever since. And quite honestly, it doesn't do much to hide old poofy wrinkled and emerging laugh lines.

I acknowledge that I am at a point where I need to decide if I'm going to be a make-up person or not. I need to figure out if I'm going to do my face each day, or be the woman who doesn't. When I'm feeling down and think I need a little pick-me-up, I've been doing my best. But usually, the choice is made for me. Like when I step out of the shower after my run, glance at the clock, and realize I was supposed to pick up Andrew five minutes ago, so I pull clothing over my still wet body, pull back my soaking hair with a hair band, and grab my keys on the way out.

That's how my kids are used to seeing me. Which is why Andy gets so confused when I look half-way decent.