And That's Why I Don't Wear Makeup

The other day I woke up looking a little haggard – ok, more haggard than usual – and since I was ahead of schedule – ok, not as behind schedule as usual – I decided to put on makeup.

I don't usually wear makeup because: 1. I'm lazy; 2. I'm not very good at applying it; and C. I usually don't have the time. Even though I have my makeup routine down to five minutes – ok, 3 minutes for the basic conceal and spackle – I figure I can use those 3-5 minutes for more important things, like finding a cure for cancer, writing the Great American Novel, or playing spider solitaire.

But that day, I was looking so haggard I decided to use what precious little, not-behind-as-usual, time I had to put on makeup. My decision may have had something – and by “may have had something” I mean “had everything” – to do with two recent incidents:

The first incident was when a friend said “Wow! You look younger when you wear makeup.” I'm not sure if that's true or not, because I see my face every day. I have tried different types of moisturizers, concealers and foundation, and I don't notice any difference. But they meant it as a compliment and I took it that way. (Besides, photographic evidence from that night does seem to indicate that I was looking – at a bare minimum – “not bad,” and maybe even “smokin' hot.”)

The second incident was when an acquaintance said “Wow! You have big feet.” I know this is true, because I see my feet every day. I have tried different styles of shoes – from rounded toes to high heels – but aside from avoiding shoes with extremely long, pointy toes, there's just no way to camouflage my flippers. They meant it as a statement of fact, but I was still taken aback. (Besides, I was wearing my normal running shoes, not my big-as-an-RV-but-more-comfortable Hoka running shoes.)

The point is, on the morning in question I decided to try and enhance my appearance by wearing makeup. Disaster struck early on, when an errant swipe of coverup covered up not only the steamer trunks beneath my eyes, but my wispy eyelashes as well (see #2 above “not very good at applying it”). I thought I could return a little definition to my eyes by applying eyeliner. Unfortunately all this did was make me look like I had drawn circles around my eyes. It did nothing to return my eyelashes.

I was now dangerously close to being “more behind schedule than usual” (see C. above “don't have the time”), so rather than washing it all off and starting again (see Appendix: “rarely does the sensible thing”) I got out the mascara that I only use a handful of times – ok, twice – each year. Despite my best attempt to apply an even coat of “non-clumping” mascara, I managed to glue together all seven of the eyelashes on my right eye (four on the top lid, three on the bottom lid).

While struggling to open my eye – which was weighted down with a 5-pound clump of mascara – I managed to pull an eyelid muscle and worked up a good eyelid sweat that washed a combination of concealer, eyeliner and mascara into both my eyes (the left eye watered in sympathy for its fallen brother).

So now I had bloodshot, smudge-ringed eyes, tear-streaks through my foundation, and a red, runny nose. And I was definitely behind schedule.

This is why I don't wear makeup.

I'm not sure if I looked any younger (although I did bear a striking resemblance to some drunken, after-hours, party-girl pics I've seen on Instagram), but no one said anything about my big feet.