Oh, the 50's!

As I peered in the grimy mirror this morning, plucking my aging eyebrows and attempting to look 30 again, or perhaps 40, I thought about how long I have been trying to look "good." Do others out there have this painful realization?

It started in my early teens, as the vision of beautiful movie stars flitted across my vision: Rita Hayworth (ok, she was a LOT older than I am), Jayne Mansfield, and of course, Marilyn Monroe. How did they get their faces--not to mention their gorgeous bodies--to look so luciously perfect? I started with a small Maybelline mascara box--red. It opened to a narrow mirror on the top lid and a small cake of solid black mascara below, with a little groove for a brush. Oh, heaven! I remember spitting on the brush (who knew about hygiene then?), rubbing it on the mascara, and spreading it on my lashes. How killingly dashing. I was clearly well on my way to Marilyn Monroe-hood.

Then there was the bra. Is the bra. A torture device invented by some deranged person long ago. Never possible to actually drop one's breasts into it and fasten the closures behind. It had to be dragged around one's waist, fastened, and then sweatily shrugged up to enclose said breasts. Thank God there was no flesh sneaking past those rigid panels!

Then came the girdle. Did I need one at the slim age of 14? Clearly not. But I thought I did, and it meant I could wear stockings and fasten them at the top with those little nubby things that are only enchanting when someone is undressing you, preferably slowly.

Have we progressed since then? Have I progressed? Nope. Here's the drill. Wash face with expensive Patricia Wexler facial wash. Pat dry. (Rubbing might encourage wrinkles!) Spread on hideously expensive thick pink cream--also from Patricia Wexler--and wait for it to sink in. While it is sinking in (at least a ten minute proposition), spray water and conditioner on recalcitrant, short, curly hair, plus something expensive and stinky from Marshall's cosmetics section. Unwind hair dryer, which has almost plunged into toilet, and start to blow dry, using an enormous brush to straighten said too-curly hair. After 10 sweaty minutes of this, push into an assemblage of style and spray on some carcinogenic spray to keep it in place.

Pluck eyebrows, squinting busily into the grimy mirror, wondering if I should order one of those magnifying mirrors from catalogues for old people which contain products for hammer toes, urinary incontinence, and bathtubs which swing out vertically for the mobility-impaired. Sigh. Stroke black onto eyebrows to thicken them; afix glaze (my daughter uses vaseline) to keep thinning eyebrows in place. Dip eyeliner brush into green eye color and paint it at base of upper lashes as well as delicately below eyes. Try not to notice how much hand trembles. (Did I drink too much wine last night? Or is it just general debility...) Put a dash of glowing cream eye color above the green. Spread mascara carefully.

Now expensive Patricia Wexler pink cream is dry. Then spread P.W.'s day cream with factor 30 in it over face. Hmmm--is that a new splotch on my left cheek? Remnant of sunbathing in the Caribbean at noon wearing factor 2 suncream decades ago? Dot pale concealer under eyes and spread gently. Then take expensive Aveda toning cream and spread over face. Almost done. Line lips carefully and put on expensive Aveda rose lipstick, wondering if I should invest in one of those creams meant to plump out aging lips.

Are we done? Oh, say it ain't so! Not yet. There's the underwear, the bra (same problem still encountered), pants, and shirt. Then tape the vulcan-salute separating left toes, snuggle into sandals, and--what did I forget? Oh, right. The perfume. I know. Fragrance-free meetings defeat me. I know others suffer from my scent, and I feel for them, I do, and try to be sensitive to this. But for someone who all her life has felt she is unacceptable--that major construction work is needed to look even modestly acceptable--dabbing scent on wrists and neck is part of the essential reconstruction job. It makes me feel loveable. Just a tiny bit.

And the soul? Well, that's for my other blog: www.itsthegodthing.blogspot.com

Bite Me, Holiday Expectations!

Hello after a long absence, mostly due to a crushing deadline with my novel about a bipolar girl alive during the Salem Witch trials, The Father of Lies, but I'm back--brain a bit reamed out, and body fluffier from sitting too long in a chair.
I tried something different this year in our annual Christmas gathering with pots of food and goodies. We agreed first of all not to exchange any presents ("No, Presents?" my 19 year-old daughter exclaimed mournfully) which took away a lot of the pressure. (Will they like this? Will they think I'm OK to give this? Would they really rather heave this over the bridge into the rushing river because it is such a depleted and sad gift....)
I also did not send out Christmas cards, much as I love them, because they are such a time-suck. I recommend signing up for www.jacquielawson.com for her terrific animated cards, which can be sent for any occasion during the year. They are imaginative, cool, and original, come with music, and are full of motion--rather like the wizard photos in the Harry Potter books.
The third thing I did was open my hands and let go of my expectations of our family gathering: that we might put to rest uncertainties and tension; that everyone will be pleased with me; and that we will sally forth full of good cheer and bonhomie. Alors! We picked up my frail, aged stepmother (who still manages to be astounding and cranky with a certain Sicilian sharpness) and ferried her down for the gathering. Just helping her up the stairs made me realize how blessed I am to be steady on my own two feet; how easy it is for me to navigate stairs, changes in levels, and more.
When we sat down to supper, I just tried to listen for a change, instead of insisting that I have the last word or be right about everything (a theme in my natal family). Interestingly enough, by doing that the "I" that is "me" simply receded into the background. Somebody else was present, named Ann or Annie, but that person just occupied a chair and looked at the marvelous people assembled around our table: my two brothers (we're all in our 60's now!); my nephew and his lady from California; my younger brother's brilliant wife; my older brother's long-term girlfriend, musician, and speaker of French with her two girls; my husband (known for being witty); and my niece who, with great practicality and vision, manages a large apartment complex, as well as being an avant-garde musician.
So much talent at one table! And by the simple act of letting go and falling backwards, just a little, I was able to truly see people and appreciate how hard they work, the deep goodness within, and the wild humor which binds us together.
It was a good Christmas. Jesus was born in the stable, the Magi have come and gone, and the star I follow now has more to do with the brilliance of others than my own flickering brilliance.