Spackle your feelings with face cream!

Friend: “Do you ever buy new skincare and get super excited to try it, because just maybe it will fix your skin and all your problems?

“I went to Sephora today.”

Me: “Pretty much every time. I’m actually excited FOR you.”

Friend: “I got a sample of this and I’m very excited to try it. [preview ink]”

Me: “Holy shit, I didn’t even click it yet, but fucking TIGER GRASS. NICE.”

‘What IS it?’

‘Fuck if I know, put it on my FACE.’”

Friend: “EXACTLY. It’s the grass of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight…”

Me: “‘It’s only $18! I need it!’

‘Our skin doesn’t even GET red.’

‘SILENCE! I need it!’”

I could totally sit with you.

I wore a halter top to work today because I am classy as fuck.

But at least I can wear halters, because I don’t have man shoulders.

My pores are huge, but my hairline isn’t weird and my nail beds don’t suck, and I think my breath is OK in the morning. (I mean, obviously it’s not ideal, but no one’s ever run away or anything.)

So I think I’m orbiting the plus column today, appearance-criticism-wise.

P.S. Oh, and it’s Friday, so I’m wearing jeans, of course. It’s not like I’d wear the ugliest effing skirt you’d ever seen. I didn’t even buy that skirt; my friends weren’t around to ask if it looked good on me.

P.P.S. I’m not wearing hoop earrings, either—she told me those were her thing.

A Pimple in Time

It just seems rude that my face is capable of having wrinkles AND a pimple.

Really, Nature? Blow me.

I see what you did there. The question is, do YOU?

Ahem…The spokesmodel for Aveeno skincare products, ladies and gentlemen.

Via Huffington Post:

“The objectification and scrutiny we put women through is absurd and disturbing … a reflection of how we see and portray women in general, measured against some warped standard of beauty. Sometimes cultural standards just need a different perspective so we can see them for what they really are — a collective acceptance… a subconscious agreement. We are in charge of our agreement. Little girls everywhere are absorbing our agreement, passive or otherwise. And it begins early. The message that girls are not pretty unless they’re incredibly thin, that they’re not worthy of our attention unless they look like a supermodel or an actress on the cover of a magazine is something we’re all willingly buying into. This conditioning is something girls then carry into womanhood. We use celebrity ‘news’ to perpetuate this dehumanizing view of females, focused solely on one’s physical appearance, which tabloids turn into a sporting event of speculation.”

 

Elbows Guy III: The Reckoning

As I mentioned, Elbows Guy emailed me back after I’d told him his comment bugged me.

Here’s what I’d said, between other things we’d been discussing, one of which was a second date:
“You tell me if you end up free Tuesday, and I’ll tell you if my ashen elbows and I can join you. Sound good? (Can you tell I took that far too seriously and now wonder if you’re a. Mean, or b. Will think/say things about the rest of my body if ever you see it?) :)”

His response, also among other topics:
“You definitely are reading too much into the elbows thing. It was just a simple observation since your skin is really soft and your elbows were a little rougher (I suspect from resting them on your desk while in hardcore writing mode). It’s the little details like that which I find fascinating in people, especially women, since they usually have a story to tell.

“Your (a) vs (b) question is actually the same question – ‘is this guy a judgey asshat who’s going to make fun of me and my quirks in order to make up for his own insecurities and fragile ego?’ And the answer to that is no. I have a very thick skin and will occasionally say something without thinking how someone not similarly thick-skinned will take it, but I’m not a judgey asshat. I have a sneaking suspicion that was not the case with one or more of the guys you have recently dated.”

Ahem…

1. I pay a nice lady to be my therapist. I don’t need you and your degree from the Lifetime Movie School of Emotional Trauma.

2. I HAVE projected from previous men I’ve known, but I’m usually self-aware enough to recognize it. (Like when you called me “Miss” the other day and my brain spasmed because that’s what That Guy called all the faceless, interchangeable women in his harem — THAT was projecting. I knew it, and I shut it down.)

3. I don’t lean on my desk while I’m writing. My elbows are just shitty. (And way to double down on telling me so.)

4. “I’m not a judgey asshat, but I’m gonna point out your faulty sentence construction.” (I know he’s right. Shut up.)

Sometimes my brain goes all River-Tam-batshit-banana-pants-at-the-end-of-Serenity — swinging weapons around in a circle to fight off whoever comes near her. Whenever I’ve stuck that feeling out because, “I might be overreacting,” I really can’t remember a time my brain was wrong.

Buffy the Dry Skin Slayer

Elbows Guy emailed me back yesterday about the Elbows thing, and when I didn’t answer, he emailed again this morning to ask if I was “still alive?”

No, I am not alive, sir. My elbow skin overtook the rest of my body and I collapsed in a pile of ash like one of the slain vampires on Buffy.

(It’s Monday. I’m irritable. His initial response will be reported in detail later today, because it borders on brilliance.)

Hell no, elbow…

OK, this post is long, but a guy I was kissing after a first date took a timeout to mention the dry skin on my elbows, so I think it merits further analysis…

We’re at the end of a decent first date. We’re kissing. It’s not great, but not bad. I like kissing. I like being against a man, even it wasn’t quite the physical fit I enjoy. (Ever just FIT with someone? Isn’t that the best? It’s like two really dirty puzzle pieces.)

I’m wearing a tank top, so he’s been touching my neck and shoulders. His hands go under my shirt (because I put them there), and graze the curve between my ribs and hips. He’d mentioned that’s one of his favorite parts of a woman, and it happens to be one of my favorite/best physical features.

Then he runs his hands down my bare arms and says, “Your skin is so soft… Well, except your elbows.”

*blink*…Sorry, what?

I pull away from him, gesture up and down at my body, carefully outfitted in form-fitting jeans, low-cut tank top with subtle but effective cleavage, lacy bra peeking out if I shifted the right way (which I did…often), and I say, “Really? Allllll this, and you’re gonna heckle my ELBOWS?!”

He’s not a moron, so he quickly says he was joking, and we get back to kissing after a few minutes of me being Cool-Girl-pseudo-outraged and teasing. But it stuck in my brain.

I mean, he’s not wrong. I could stand to loofah. But…

A. Who the fuck thinks of ELBOWS in ANY situation, particularly THIS one? Is this yet another part of my body I’m supposed to angst over and tend to? Should I add this to the list that already includes more extensive maintenance than my fucking car?

B. That’s your choice on a first date? A woman is giving your hands free reign all over her body while she makes little noises near your ear so you feel all manly and virile, and you pause to say that out loud? So if we’re ever naked together, are you going to point out that I don’t wax? That I have cellulite? That I basically have no ass?

Related: Is every inch of YOU gonna be all Beyoncé “Flawless?”

C. Oh, sorry, I must’ve left “dry elbow skin” off my OkCupid profile. Much like YOU left out that you’re 5’6″ only if I don’t understand how rulers work — I’m 5′, and when I raised to tiptoe out of habit to kiss you, I noticed I didn’t need to. Do you exaggerate size often…?

D. If you have enough blood in your brain to notice and form comments about imperfections while your hands and mouth are roaming a woman’s neck, shoulders, and waist — all of which, by the way, are naturally soft and smooth like a baby’s ass — we have bigger issues.

Too bad, too, because up until that point, you had plenty of moisture where it mattered.

I didn’t realize in the moment how much it bugged me, but…no. I mentioned today, briefly and nicely among other topics in my response to his most recent email, that I may have taken it too seriously, so I’ll see what he says.

The beauty of this is, I really don’t care if some dude I’ve met once thinks I’m crazy, especially since we seemed kind of “Eh…you’ll do for now” about each other.

And I know I’m overreacting, but consider The Elbow Heckle in the grand scheme — FIRST date, you not only have a negative thought about my body, you tell me? Am I going to have to bring my A++ game EVERY time I see you or you’ll point out my “flaws?” (Yes, I did just extrapolate a likely innocuous comment into a portent of future emotional abuse… What, like you’ve never?)

I’m not Perfect Girl, sir. I DO have dry skin. I use lotion on my hands and legs, but apparently skip my elbows, and my feet. I also have a pudgy belly, enough thigh fat to make another pair of thighs, and if you spank my ass during sex, you’ll see reverb. My forehead is showing signs of early-onset Worf syndrome. I have pale, weak eyebrows if don’t fill them in with pencil, and you’ll know it’s time for me to go back to the hair salon when you see glints of gray growing in.

If you’re expecting perfection in any aspect, you’re not getting it from me. Go hit on Gisele. No, really. I BEG you to let me know how that goes.

Friends don’t let friends shop drunk.

Email to Lady Friends…

Subj: “Tonight I had wine and saw infomercials”

“Thank the gods of finance that I’m already in bed and am too tired to go fetch my credit card. (I saw photos from this past weekend and my face has more lines than a singles bar on ladies’ night.)

“BUT LOOK AT ALL THE SCIENCE WORDS!!!!!”

“Lean In…to Botox”

I don’t know what y’all talk about at work…

Coworker: “I need a dermatologist to help me understand how I can have wrinkles and acne. Mother Nature is a cruel mistress.”

Me: “Yeah, I have that, too. It’s adorable. I find myself believing ads for wrinkle cream. And then I hate myself because ‘aging is natural and we should embrace it.’ I am a terrible, terrible feminist.”

Coworker: “I know. But can’t we have equal rights and feel pretty? I want both.”

Me: “Exactly. Lean In…to Botox.”