Having lived successfully through a turbulent childhood, the 80s/90s/and yesterday, a motorcycle “club” (never say “gang”), and motherhood, I can safely say that I am not an addictive personality.
You’ll have to take my word for it.
That said, however, I’m going to have to take a long lunch today and run to Target. I may not be back as soon as you think I should, but please don’t worry. You’ll have to trust me on this. Something’s come up, something you don’t know about me, and something that I cannot hide from you for too much longer.
Maybe I should just tell you now.
You see, I’ve forgotten my lipstick.
Go ahead. Scoff. Shoot, if it wasn’t me, I’d be scoffing with you! But it is me, and I feel my pain.
Shhhhhh. Listen. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my lips chapping.
My mother was a lipstick kind of gal. Not in a gaudy way – never! That would not do. But a quick trip to the grocery store? “Just a little color…” she’d mutter while applying her lipstick, trailing off as she peered earnestly into the mirror. A brush through the hair, a “little color” and she was gone, looking good and getting it done.
One got the feeling, watching her, that that “little color” was done not for her but for others.
While it is true that I have a healthy ego (the outward signs actually masking the fear that everyone else is attending some fabulous party that I’ve not been invited to for reasons known only to them) and often feel that people are looking at me in silent judgment, the lipstick is not necessarily to add a dash of color for others on this bleak and wool-wrapped February day.
I apply lipstick, all day, several times a day, because I like it. I’m just used to having it!
I’m just used to it! That’s all! OK? I’m just used to it! I like it! I mean, I could stop but it doesn’t affect my life or anything! It’s not like I’m leaving work just to –
2 hours ago