27.

ODE TO EYELINER

Thank heavens for makeup, that’s all I can think, staring at my un-made-up reflection in my bathroom mirror back in Los Angeles. I’ve aged a little, but I don’t have to succumb to this. Absolutely no reason to resign myself to the stoic, au naturel look for tonight’s dinner party. I’ve earned the right to use a little magic to look as fabulous on the outside as I am on the inside.

I smile, pulling out my tray of tricks and laying it on the counter. I know exactly how to perk up these faded eyes, lips, and skin with a few minutes of eyeliner, mascara, foundation, blush, and lipstick.

I lean into the magnified makeup mirror to start.

I recoil.

Recoil at the 10× magnification of truth that stares back: I already have on eyeliner, mascara, foundation, blush, and lipstick. I put it on an hour ago. Not only is the old lady in the mirror me in full makeup, but the old lady completely forgot she already did her whole beauty routine.

“SHOULDN’T YOU BE GETTING READY?!” I yell out the bathroom door, directing my frustration toward the den so my voice can be heard over the Golf Channel. Not the one in my house. The Golf Channel in my house was disconnected the same day the man who used to be planted in front of it also disconnected and moved to a den in a different part of town. My yell is in general to all men in all dens all over the universe. I yell to be heard over all Golf Channels and every single smug male voice that calls back:

“I’ll jump in the shower when you’re five minutes from being ready!”

What it must be like to be male and have your face look the same every single time you look in the mirror?

To have no dinner-party version of your face to create.

No work version.

No Saturday-morning version.

No Saturday-night version.

No lunch version.

No beach version.

No wedding version.

No breakup version.

No holiday version.

No five-pound evening bag full of versions to get you through a two-hour date.

I remember watching a young woman in the ladies’ room of a restaurant, frantically redoing her face. So insecure, she apparently couldn’t stand for her date to see her with un-touched-up eyeliner. As though he’d want to marry her if she got the mascara just right. Oblivious to the fact that he might actually be more attracted to her if she’d stayed at the table so he could eat his twenty-six-dollar entrée while it was warm.

I pity her.

Then I remember that the young woman was me.

“SHOULDN’T YOU BE GETTING READY YET??!!” I yell out the bathroom door again at all the invisible men.

What must it be like to be male and leave the house without—as my mom’s archaic generation calls it—“putting on your face”? The injustice makes me crazy, but not crazy enough to go to tonight’s dinner party without putting on my face.

I apply another layer of makeup over the faded one I forgot I put on an hour ago. Carefully. Too little makeup, and I look dead. Too much and I look desperate to not look dead, which my daughter has pointed out is even worse.

I stand back from the 10× magnification mirror. Happy. Restored. I look like myself again.

I walk into my Golf-Channel-free den and take a moment to sink into a my man-free love seat before I leave for tonight’s event. I feel good about myself. I feel good about all of womanhood—about the ridiculous conformities and contradictions with which we make peace. About the fact that even with the thousands of extra hours we spend preparing to walk out the door, we still go so far and accomplish so much. I celebrate the grace and beauty our extra efforts add to the world.

My dog—ever in sync with my emotions—charges toward my happy aura, bounds onto my lap, and joyfully licks my contented, confident face. Licks the last fifteen minutes of eyeliner, mascara, foundation, blush, and lipstick right off.

I’m ready for so many, many things in life. Leaving the house for a dinner party tonight, not so much.