49 years old.
No make-up. Waist length hair in braids. A hat.
In all my Facebook picture posting history, I don’t think I ever received as many likes and compliments as I did for that picture.
It’s funny to me how life’s experiences can brainwash you.
My entire life– through my family’s eyes– my pale skin has always been a detriment.
My childhood nickname was Caspar. THEY tan just by walking by a window on a sunny day.
Make-up was always pushed upon me. As a matter of fact, my mother suggested I start wearing lipstick in FIFTH GRADE. She lectured me that if I had color on my lips, then I wouldn’t look so sickly. And so the school nurse would finally stop asking if I felt well.
But as years have gone by I have lessened the amount of make-up I wore–slowly but surely.
Today I can get my whole face on in less than two minutes:
Cover up under my eyes and a few spots on my cheeks.
Translucent powder to set.
AND- of course-
I have been wearing that shade for almost a decade. No deviation. It works.
Should mac ever decide to discontinue that shade, I’m gonna buy out all I can find!)
But looooooong gone are the days of monochromatic eye shadow schemes to match every outfit.
Of owning a make-up bag the size of a duffel bag.
Of changing my make up look from day to night.
And I think about WHY.
What happened to me that all of THAT went by the wayside?
Well. Time for one.
Who has time for getting THAT kind of face on before heading out the door?
And money. My tastes run towards mac, Christian Dior, and Bobby Brown. That stuff ain’t cheap by ANY stretch of the imagination .
And lastly…… I started being OK with who I was. Little by little as each procedure of make-up fell away, I began looking at myself and thinking:
“Yeah. I look all right”
What I have held onto– my pale skin and dark lips– has become what I define as “my style”.
And I embrace what was once undesirable.
BUT– this blog is- as always– about Jack.
If you will pardon my language, Jackson could give a rats behind whether or not my skin tone is even.
I don’t think he has ever judged me on whether or not my cheeks are perfectly sculpted.
And I am pretty sure he does not have an opinion whether or not my eyes are smokey or defined.
Jack cares that I am consistent.
Jack cares that I am kind.
Jack cares that I smile at him.
Jack cares that he can count on me.
My look, my perfume, my wardrobe are all inconsequential.
My actions, my intent, my love is all that matters.
And THAT my friends, is a pretty good way to look at others.