Today was the first time in four days that I put on makeup. I’m not trying to make a statement by wearing it or not wearing it — I just didn’t bother with it over the holiday weekend and then couldn’t scrounge up enough enthusiasm to put it on when I went back to work on Tuesday morning.
This morning I had a one-minute conversation with a little girl about her rain boots that ended in my face turning a bright and painful red. That’s all we talked about–how cool her rain boots were, how much I wished I had a pair of my own–but by the time she walked away, I was blushing from the roots of my hair to the neckline of my shirt for no reason at all. I was so red that a passing lobster mistook me for a long-lost friend. I was so red that Joe McCarthy came back from the dead, declared me a communist and had me blacklisted from Hollywood. I was so red that… well, you get the idea.
I’ve noticed a certain women’s magazine believes there’s only one season.
If you flip through a Cosmo in September, it will show you how to keep your beachy waves long after the beach is closed. December’s issue provides tips on faking a fun, sexy bronze glow through winter and taking your man on fun, sexy summer-themed dates to get through the frightening dark months ahead. In February, while you wrestle the pages through your mittens, the fashion section fills with summer’s fun, sexy new looks. When June finally arrives, it’s impossible to find a coherent headline on the cover between giant yellow and orange words: FUN SEXY SUMMER! SUN AND SEX AND SEA SHELLS! MELANOMA AND ALSO SEX!
Someone should probably let them know about the existence of autumn, winter, and spring. I’d do it, but they think I died in a horrible waxing accident and I’m loathe to correct them.