Dreams are a wish your heart make when you’re fast
asleep. In dreams you will lose your heartaches, whatever your wish for, you
keep. Have faith in your dreams and some day your…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!
Another
morning; just like all the rest. I slip out
of bed and gracefully move to the vanity where I examine the results of my
beauty sleep. Yes, I’m far too pretty today.
My tummy is
too tight, my hair too straight and shiny. My lips are too pink and my skin is
too clean. My eyes are far too big and bright and my smile too white and happy.
So I pour
myself a bowl of Lucky Charms, top it with whole milk and pop a cinnamon roll
in the toaster oven. I kick my snow
white guaranteed-to-make-you-lose-ten-pounds running shoes aside as I sit down
on the couch. Balancing my breakfast of champions on one knee, I turn the TV to the latest talk show drama
featuring two women begging through fountains of tears and catlike screams for the audience to believe that they, not
the other #*$@!, is the mother of Mr. Playboy’s baby.
When every
last sticky drop has been licked from my bowl, I dig around in the bathroom
cabinet for my makeup bag, ready to apply all the newest tips and tricks. I line
up my arsenal on the counter: tweezers, brushes, powders, gels, mascara, blush,
curlers and pencils.
The
eyebrows are the first to go. My trusty tweezers pull and pluck their natural
curve into a hardy straight line. Next I pile on foundation, a shade darker
than my skin color and I am sure to leave a line along my chin. Wouldn’t want
my neck and face to be the same color. I then attack it with powder, which,
when the dust cloud dissipates, has effectively settled into every pore, line
and crack. Perfect.
My eyes are
still too bright so, mouth open, tongue hanging out and two inches from the
mirror, I raccoon my eyes with pencil and apply coat after coat after coat of
mascara until my eyes are hidden in a curtain of black. I finish by covering
the offending pink of my lips with a fashionable shade of nude lipstick.
Then, with
curling iron in one hand and Ultimate-mega-hold-your-style-all-day-and-for-eternity
hair spray in the other I alternate between curling and spraying, curing and
spraying, curling and spraying, until my hair is a mass of stiff, sticky frizz.
Nice.
Stepping in
to my closet I survey the options, tossing the rejects on to the floor. Yellow
or teal shirt? Oh, definitely the red flowy shirt that makes me look prego to
go with my fifteen inch stilettos. Pants? No, too concealing. Ooo, leggings! Just
have to show off every curve of that cinnamon roll. I sling my
hey-look-I’m-a-designer-bag over my shoulder, making sure my chapstick,
lipstick, makeup bag, wallet, spork, lunch, iphone, sunglasses, change of
clothes, flats, water bottle and the kitchen sink are safely stowed inside.
I teeter
out the door, happy with my efforts. I mean, Cinderella had a fairy godmother
to dress her up and help her catch her prince. Even that old lady with the
sparkly wand knew that beauty is only as deep as your makeup bag.
