“Do one thing every day that scares you.” -Mary Schmich
I don’t wear a lot of make-up but when a friend of mine heard that I remove it every night with *shock* and *horror* just plain-ole-water she looked at me as repulsed with my habits as though I had just told her that last night I’d had group sex on the beach with a bunch of accountants from a two-star-convention.
Next time I saw her she pressed a lovely sleek tube of famous brand make-up remover into my hands. You simply must use this she told me.
The label touted itself as “Professional formula…Skin tolerance dermatologically tested”. I flipped the lid. It actually smelled quite nice.
That night I gave it a go. Creaming it onto my face and wiping it away with a babies-bottom soft flannel as I had been strictly instructed to do.
Feck me! I thought. It really does get rid of the poly-filla quickly.
I stared into the mirror.
I saw a face shining, almost glowing back at me.
But my elation was shattered, almost immediately. I noticed a wrinkle tiny line at the corner of my eye that I hadn’t ever seen before.
Tears welled and fell stinging on their way out.
I couldn’t believe I’d had such a reaction to such a teeny-tiny-effen-line.
It really was barely noticeable, but perhaps I was being over-sensitive… I had just recently had my thirty-fifth birthday for…well… several years ahem in a row…
The next night I braved the mirror again. Armed with my new make-up remover tube I waxed on and waxed off and then peered into the mirror.
Fockin’ bitch I thought, that line is still there. I tried to hold back the tears but they fell once again, stinging and reddening my eyes.
I went to bed feeling quite sad.
On the third night I had calmed myself, deciding that I didn’t really give-a-toss about a dumb tiny line anyway. I had a steely resolve to embrace that little line as the accumulation of many happy days over the years of my life. It was after-all a *laugh-line*.
I faced the mirror. Swearing to myself the ultimate oath… I would not freakin’ cry this time.
Make-up remover on…gunk off.
I bravely looked in the mirror and all my self-conviction melted away as the tears flowed uncontrollably, stinging my eyes as they plopped down onto my cheeks.
I buried my face in my pillow and went to bed early.
I rang my friend the next day,
“Do you like the cream?” she asked excitedly.
“No!” I said emphatically.
“Oh,” she said, a surprised note in her voice “why ever not?”
“Every time I use it my face is so clean that I can see every effen wrinkle I have. THEN I start crying…. uncontrollably. I can’t stand it! I’m disgusting!!!!It’s depressing!!!!”
She was silent for a minute. Then she said,
“Do your eyes go red?”
“Yes! Of course they do…I’m CRYYYYY-ing!”
“Do they sting?”
“Yeeeees!” I whinged “I told you the tears are un-con-troll-able with a capital TROLL. It’s a psychological sign that I hate getting old and I am! I am getting soooo ooooold!”
“Oh…” she said quietly “you’re not crying because you think you’re getting old, you’re crying because I think you might be… erm… allergic to that cream.”
The tube of shite is now in the fockin’ bin where it fockin’ belongs.
Oh, you make me laugh. You dag!
Wow. What was it?
(I love the title of this post, by the way.)
Hi Stacey! shhh! don’t tell anyone…but it was one by Clarins. Usually very good products…but I have particularly sensitive skin unfortunately…
Quadelle…you hit the nail on the head…I am a dag!