Unimproved

I’m a slouch. I’m a late sleeping, low-maintenance slouch so cosmetics have never played a big part of my routine. Actually I remember the inspiration to wear make up regularly came with a little mascara wand. I hoped to appear awake at work each morning when I was a sleep-deprived new mother. A couple of years later I was taken aback by the pleasure of a really flattering lipstick. I keep both in the glove compartment of my car because I’m still a late-sleeping slouch.

Believe me I’m not about to launch into some cosmetics rant. Neither for or against. Simply put I find nothing wrong wanting to look nice.

Last winter I did, however, catch a glimpse of myself one morning in the bathroom mirror. [And, really, is there a less flattering moment to look at yourself? Your eyesight is blotchy so your face gets all squinted, your hair is mushed up, and last night’s sleeping left a pillow crease across your cheek] Anyway, I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror and I was surprised to be surprised by my features. Disappointed, maybe.

Certainly the process of aging brings a series of disappointments in your body. Cosmetic disappointments are the least severe. But I was disappointed by my response, too. The sense of disbelief, that this visage couldn’t be me. I suppose that’s the promise of every cosmetics counter. The face in the mirror didn’t have to be me.

So I resolved not to wear makeup one day out of every week. I usually select a day where I wasn’t planning to go much of anywhere. Laundry day is a prime candidate, for instance. But the habit rose from my desire to still recognize my reflection. To be okay with an unimproved version of myself.