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“Do one thing every day that scares you.” -Mary Schmich


mirrormirrorI 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.


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