Posts Tagged ‘beauty’

    Elastic pants and babydoll blouses

    Friday, February 26th, 2010

    I had a liberating experience this past weekend —  I bought clothes that fit.

    I’m in the second half of my pregnancy and I was still putting off the purchase of maternity clothes until recently, telling myself that I could do without for a little longer and to continue with the rubber-band-through-the-button-loop technique for my pants.

    Quite simply, I was behaving like a moron.

    The second I pulled on the pants in the dressing room of a maternity store, feeling the stretchy waistband hug – not suffocate – my belly, I did my happy dance. Booty shakin’. Arms pumping. Head bobbing. All of this and there wasn’t even music involved.

    When that was over, I threw back the curtain of the dressing room and walked out to my waiting husband. He noticed the goofy smile on my face and even goofier back-and-forth march I did for him. And when no one was looking, I flashed him my belly – pronounced but content under a swath of black elastic.

    This is the best thing ever!” I exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud.

    So I bought two more pants, a pair of jeans and three blouses, all of which look ridiculously adorable on me. (Yeah, I said it.)

    I don’t care that it’d qualify as a fashion faux pas to the Nth degree, but I plan to rock my maternity pants for a very … very … long time.

    If nothing else, remember this

    Tuesday, November 24th, 2009

    Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

    We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’

    Actually, who are you not to be?

    – Marianne Williamson
    A Return to Love

    This is depressing

    Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009

    Today, I noticed another one of my shoes had a broken heel, making this the second pair in three months that must be fixed or thrown out.

    “Great, now I have to go shoe shopping,” I complained.

    Wait, what did I just say?

    But it’s true. I couldn’t care less about shopping for new duds. I’m not the least bit intrigued about this season’s fall boots or want to stock up on fuzzy sweaters and wool skirts. I stopped caring about fashion about a year ago. That’s why I rotate through the same three work pants every week. On weekends, I stand inside my closet and stare; yet nothing inspires me, so I pull out something drab yet comfortable and conclude, “I don’t care. Who really cares? I don’t care!!”

    This is depressing me.

    I want my vanity back. I want back the part of me that didn’t mind the fuss of makeup and dress-up. Bring back the girl who invested in herself — With time and money and confidence.

    The metaphor

    Wednesday, October 21st, 2009

    There used to be a time when my eyes would light up at the sight of 4-inch-high polka-dot stilettos in size 7. Or I’d see a heather gray pencil skirt that hugged me just right. Back then, a gold-and-silver beaded clutch within a pile of thrift-store rubbish was a treasure find, and my pursuit for the most glamorous shade of red lipstick was a worthy challenge.

    (You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?)

    I still have a majority of those items, but now I look at them with disdain because they remind me of diminishing youth — one that I don’t forsee returning.

    I glance at the dusty stilettos quizzically, not daring to put them on and risk tripping and breaking my pelvis. The pencil skirt — well, that’s gone, donated in a clothing swap with friends who evidently have the discipline to keep their cute waistlines. God only knows why I’ve kept the red lipstick, which looked pretentious even in my early twenties.

    But the clutch — I will never let that go. Because it’s still exquisite, despite its beads somewhat dull after years of handling.

    The problem with vanity

    Monday, October 19th, 2009

    When I look in the mirror these days, I zero in on my raccoon eyes and flaky skin, which are likely a result of heredity and a fickle skincare regimen. Last night, staring at my reflection, I swore that the dark circles looked bigger, uglier.

    Thus came urgency.

    I reached to the right and grabbed my Bag o’ Tricks, a makeup bag containing dozens of free samples from Sephora — cleansers, face creams, masks, eye creams, moisturizers, lip balms, etc. — and pricey, half-used products long forgotten because oftentimes decluttering spaces simply involves stashing away clutter.

    First I took out the facial cleansing pads and took them to task — a bit too eagerly — like sandpaper on plywood. Not surprisingly, my face reacted with redness.

    After rinsing and patting dry, I pulled out a sample of eye cream, sternly directing it to “Do your job, you bastard,” prior to application.

    Soon enough, it felt as though my eyeballs were on fire. But I muffled the sounds of anguish for the sake of my sleeping husband and concluded, “It must be working.”

    When it was time to moisturize my face, I sifted through myriad packets and tubes until I came upon an “Extra Emollient Night Cream” that gave me flashes of soft, radiant skin. I ripped open the packet and slathered the squishy, pink jelly all over.

    “This doesn’t feel right,” I thought, observing my varnished face and sticky palms. So I reviewed the packaging. This time I saw “Extra Emollient Night Cream for Hands.”

    I thought about how sorely I failed every step of skin care, no longer dumbfounded about why I’m aging ungracefully. I considered washing the gunk off my face, but, tired and defeated, I walked my stinging eyes and red, greasy face to the bed, placed a towel over my pillow, and went to sleep.

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