Rising to the Challenge

I subscribe to a blog on which the writer has posted her picture every morning for 30days, fresh from the rack, sans make-up, and without the benefit of a hairbrush. Yesterday, on day 29, she challenged all of her readers/voyeurs to contribute their photos to the final display. Several did, I among them.

In a summary of her experience, she mentioned the emotions evoked by receiving our pictures, and recognized the fact that some might not understand the importance.

But, I do.

Women, in particular, are taught, from a very early age, that their early morning faces are somehow lacking, and unattractive. The entire cosmetics industry is, in fact, dependent upon a mixture of this artificially ingrained, low self-esteem and natural human competitiveness.

I have written before of my earliest experimentations with face paint, and the clandestine, early morning visits to the girl’s restroom, where I vied alongside many other desperate pre-teens, for a place in front of the mirror. Since that time, I have worn make-up of various brands, in various colors, and in varying amounts.

For years, I went without foundation, painting only my eyes and lips. Later, I slathered on the stuff, opting for an oil-free formula that claimed to control break-outs, while covering zits. Sadly, at the time, the contradiction evaded me. Now, I find myself on the opposite end of the spectrum, as I choose a foundation with multiple moisturizers to control fine lines, while promising to cover wrinkles; and I am completely aware of the dichotomy. I pay more for it now than I did then, but that’s ok, “because I’m worth it”.

My lids have been blue, green, brown, and pink, and always lined. Just as I mastered the art of creating a single perfect line with a tiny paint-filled brush, pencil liners became all the rage. As I drew a single, artfully-smudged line behind my daughter’s lashes on prom night, her friend’s mother exclaimed, “Oh, you do that so well!”. And yet, every morning I still struggle to recreate the effect on my own, somewhat puffy, eyelids.

I am blessed with very long, very thick eyelashes. I say blessed, but, in truth, this too is a curse, because layers of sticky, black mascara tend to clump in thick eyelashes, resulting in the dreaded “spider eyes”. So, again, I pay more, but…..you know the drill.

There was a time, in my early 20’s, during which the only way you could see the “real” me involved a really good flashlight and a possible conviction for breaking and entering. By the time I reached my 30’s, I became more concerned about the quality of my skin, and, thus began to give my aging pores a break by going bare-faced on weekends, unless I had an “event”. I maintained this regime for many years…until Alice challenged me.

My first visit to her morning face evoked many of the same emotions I remember having as my parents and I walked the sideshow at a local fair. I remember thinking, “Oh, that’s interesting.”, and, “I wonder why she wants to do that?”

Before long, I was visiting everyday, and as I read the musings she posted alongside her picture, I began to feel the full weight of her exercise. In short, I became a fan. I found myself pulling for her. Mild interest had turned into rousing feelings of support, much like those I feel when watching my beloved Gators take the field. And, occasionally, I expressed those feelings in the form of a comment, in hopes that she would realize she was having an effect. After a week of starting every morning with her unfettered face, I found I no longer felt the need to paint. The image reflected back to me in my bathroom mirror was, suddenly, good enough. And, for one solid week, I truly “faced” the world.

I sat, in full make-up, as I read her challenge and responded, without hesitation. It was the least I could do….

Thinking back on it, the preparations I made are laughable. I washed, and carefully styled my hair, the night before. I rummaged through my lingerie drawer in search of something frilly, pretty, and flattering, and lay my selections at the bedside for easy access the next morning. I set my clock, while making a mental note that there could be no hitting the snooze button, come morning. I had a responsibility.

The comical noises emitted by my Fisher-Price alarm clock awoke me, as planned. And, as I rose, the chill of early autumn hit me, full force, and the frilly, pretty, flattering lingerie at my feet remained, at my feet. I stumbled, again, towards the bathroom mirror, ran one hand through hair that bore no resemblance to that I had lain upon my pillow, and grabbed the fattest, plushest, warmest robe I own. Cinching it close around me, I headed for the computer, and my camera.

Weeks ago, in hopes of receiving a photograph of a very different sort, a friend had reminded me that my camera had a timer. As I set it, and waited for the flash, I offered up silent gratitude for the tip, and my decision not to use it for his suggested purpose.

The result is an image of me that, before today, few have seen. And, it was remarkably easy, and marvelously freeing, and amazingly uneventful. It is me; just me.

And, it was the least I could do…

God’s Music…

The air here is cool, and the humidity low. When night falls, an array of tiny, white lights twinkle between swaying branches.

Soft cushions pillow us as we sit in wrought-iron rockers, and rest our feet on wooden slats.

We sip, as we rock….

Night-sounds surround us…The chirping of insects, the trilling of tree frogs, and the intermittent call of a lonely bird…

Stars abound.

An occasional cloud floats, high above our heads, giving us reason to wonder, and an opportunity to create, as accompanying breezes play in our hair…

Will we talk, love? Will we remark on the loveliness of the geranium’s last blooms? Will we marvel on the palate of the wine, as it sits upon our tongues? Will we digest the contents of our day? Will we open up a Pandora’s Box of hopes and dreams?

Or will we sit silent, content with our condition; the air, the scenery, the wine, and God’s music…

Good Enough…

“Ok, hold still…got it!”

“Did you get the probiscus?”

“I think so, that seemed to be what was holding him on…”

“I’m just happy to be talking with someone who knows the meaning of “probiscus”.”

“Ditto…”

And in his gentle laughter I understood that sometimes good enough is, enough.

The Keeper

I’d been working in the gardens all morning. The arrival of fall brings with it a whole new set of obligations to my landscape, and more opportunities for therapy in the form of pruning, shaping, digging, and watering.

Caught inside my thoughts, I held the sprayer over purple tinged leaves. The soft thud hardly registered. The ensuing scuffle did, and instantly I knew what was happening behind me.

I turned the sprayer on the dog, knowing her dislike of all things wet, and hoping it would supersede her dislike of small, furry animals. The sprayer won, and the squirrel lay in the pine straw; twisted unreasonably, breathing heavily.

I ran inside the house to find him at the computer, deeply engrossed in a sports blog.

“Come.”, my tone and my retreating back left no room for argument.

He took one look, and shooed me inside.

Several minutes later, he returned.

“It’s ok.”, he said, as he lowered himself into the chair while giving the mouse a shake.

As a friend of mine likes to say…

“This one’s a keeper.”

Marking Time

I almost did,

And, then I didn’t.

We’ll both be better for it.

Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)

The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.

I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”

Unmade…

Fourth grade boys chase girls.

Hence, I spent most of the 4th grade running in large circles around the playground with a group of five or six girls who had innocently, yet proudly, dubbed themselves “The Cool Kids”.

Boys, being male, even in the 4th grade, found themselves strangely attracted to this group of girls with nothing to recommend them besides the braces their parents’ income had lovingly screwed onto their teeth, and a cool club name.

By the 5th grade, the boys had ceased their chasing, and had, instead, begun to study these strange creatures in an effort to understand what it was they had been chasing, in the first place. This reticence on the part of “older” boys is, in my opinion, what forces girls to resort to plan B. In my case, this involved make-up.

A couple of years ago, as I sat in the lobby of a big box restaurant, waiting for my sisters to join me for our monthly “sister’s day”, I was shocked, and admittedly fascinated, by the sight of a child no older than six parading back and forth in front of me, in full, glittering make-up, skin-tight blue jeans, and high heels. She held a fancy cellphone between her delicate, manicured fingers as she chatted with a friend while waiting for a table by pacing the clay tiles under our feet.

This was not my reality. In my time, a simpler time, mothers didn’t allow their girls to paint their prepubescent faces. But girls, being girls, are always able to find a way around an obstacle as simple as parental restrictions. My friend, Melody, and I scratched and saved to buy apple-green or sky-blue eyeshadow, and tubes of sticky, roll-on, fruit-flavored, lip-gloss that we then hid away inside our newly acquired and ever-present purses.

We left home pure, and freshly-scrubbed, and before the first bell sounded, we had completed yet another masterpiece. We raced towards homeroom, batting green and blue eyelids at one another, secure in the knowledge that we were cunning, and smart, and worldly, and beautiful!

I’ve since lost track of Melody. But, I know that wherever she is, she is painted. I know this, because I am.

Or, I was.

“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day…”

As I finished dressing, I swallowed the handful of herbs and vitamins that constitute breakfast and reached below the vanity for my paintbox. Half bent, in full swing, I caught my image in the large mirror over the sink. I rose, slowly, and looked; really looked. And, I made a decision.

I closed the cabinet beneath the sink with a decided thud, turned out my bedside lamp, and left the bedroom, unpainted.

Today is the fourth day in a row that I have taken on the world clean-faced. Today is also the first day I began to wonder, “Why?”.

My wardrobe remains unchanged. It occurs to me that my middle-aged, unpainted face and wild, unkempt hair, may appear incongruous above my Vera Wang blouse, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels.

So, why?

As I walked into the office this morning, I had regained my spring…and my smile, sans lipstick. As I talked with clients, my leg still swung irreverently beneath the desk in time to our banter, and I worked it, sans mascara. All day, without the mask, I’ve felt strangely attractive and wild; more so than in a very long time….

Many different answers have pinged against the sides of my head since the question was asked:

I work in an office replete with people I have known for most of my life, most of whom come to work every day wearing the face God gave them. Why bother?

I subscribe to a blog, in which the writer presents herself fresh from sleep every morning. I am inspired by these images; their raw honesty, their bravery, and their beauty.

I am raw. I am fresh. I am coming clean. I am starting over.

I am happy.

Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

Good music played, softly, and all manner of utensils were in attendance, from salad forks, to dessert spoons. It was to be served family style, and southern, from it’s menu to the cadence in the conversation.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

Several different answers compete in my head, ranging from the acidly sarcastic, “Well, why didn’t you SAY so! Of course, I’ll slave over a hot stove for hours, as long as YOU are there.”, to, “Well, I don’t know, I kinda had plans…”, to what eventually stammered from my mouth on a wave of trepidation, “Ok”.

I seasoned the chops, and moved about the kitchen in time to personally chosen music piped in through the tiny speakers in my ears. I peeled potatoes, before chopping them into boiling water, and I searched my pantry for a known favorite; crowder peas.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“Cooking…I’m frying chicken. I was wondering….do you dunk in the egg first, and then the flour, or the other way around?” Cooking questions are not unusual. All my boys cook. I insisted upon it.

“Wow! You are brave!” I said. “I don’t even fry chicken. Well, I will, after I’ve beaten it to a pulp, so that it’s flat, and I’m sure the inside will cook. And, of course, I spice it up and add a little parmesan. I’ve got that recipe. You want it?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

A picture of my beautiful son, wrapped in an imaginary apron, filled my head. His face shone, like the sun, as his beautiful Native American girlfriend entered the house after a long day of crunching numbers.

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Years of Sunday dinners had left my son with an obligation to provide. And, as his love labored, he stayed behind and created an environment of caring and nourishment, with no thoughts to traditional roles, or pride, or selfishness.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

Lassoing the Moon

It stormed here today.

Not completely unexpected, mind you. But after several days without a cloud, one becomes hopeful the storm has passed.

For four days and nights, the weather was dry, uneventful, and the clouds separated, more than once, to reveal blue skies and multi-colored sunlight, as I allowed myself to be lulled into a place of anxious comfort.

Before the storms came.

And thunder rolled in the form of a sob that filled my head with sounds no one else could hear.

No one ever, really, lassoes the moon…

Arm-wrestling God

We share 20 years.

She hosted a beautiful wedding as I joined my life to my first real love, and provided a haven when he returned to his; liquid, cold, uncaring, and violent.

She was there through the howls of birth; first mine, and later, theirs.

And, as I suffered through the death of one not to be born alive, she was there as I emerged from the examination room, holding a single rose, and her tongue, on the long, silent ride home.

When I determined to try again, staring down forty, she propped me up when my feet were too swollen to carry me, and never failed to remind me of the folly in my decision.

Now as I bare my soul, share my guilt, and bemoan my lack of restraint, she does what only she can do….

“You arm-wrestled God for a man, honey! What did you think was gonna happen?”

This is her gift…