On Friday, I swept into work without makeup . . .
. . . and in my glasses.
A decade ago, friends, this would have been unfathomable. Atrocious. Awful. Embarrassing. To be blunt, if I couldn’t wear concealer and Chapstick at a bare minimum, I might have called in sick. Wish I were joking.
But let’s back up.
Though far from a beauty maven, I’ve worn some combination of cosmetics daily since I was the awkward 10-year-old try to mask her first acne break-out. I lived in fear that my fellow fifth-graders would notice the spots, so Mom took pity on me and bought me my first bottle of liquid concealer. I tried dismissing the marks as “mosquito bites” on my chin and cheeks, but . . . eh, you know no one bought that nonsense.
Indoctrinated into the world of makeup, I became reliant on its life-changing abilities. It became a way of life.
From my early dalliances with concealer to a new love affair with blush, I eventually begged my mom to buy me my first tube of mascara after seeing friends experiment with full lashes at a sleepover. On a related note, who didn’t learn the rites of womanhood from giggling with classmates at 3 a.m.? Everything I learned about being a girly girl probably stems from those early parties — and coveting Seventeen‘s how-to articles as a teen.
But I digress.
Once I started wearing eyeliner, there was really no going back. I don’t go thick — a thin black line around the upper and lower lid is all I need — but I do, without fail, wear it. Daily. But it’s subtle, I think. I’m all about a natural look and, though I take care with my face and have perfected my beauty routines, I don’t think it’s too much.
For proof of this, a coworker recently asked me why I don’t wear makeup. And I was like, ????
To be fair, my beauty routine is pretty minimal. My oily skin means most of my “daring” eye products are pooled on my cheeks by lunchtime, so it’s not really worth the bother. Once I’m showered, doing my face can take less than five minutes. On goes my concealer, followed by blush; then I move on to dark brown eyeliner and a swipe of sheer shadow across the eyelids. Some sort of lip product (usually a butter), mascara and — poof! Instant Meg. Just add coffee.
When I woke up Friday, I went about my routine like any other day. Before Spence was off, I went to put in my contacts and dig around for something business-casual. Unlike every other morning, however, my right eyeball suddenly erupted as though dissolved by dragon’s breath. It felt like a hive of bees had descended on my cornea, and I was left cursing and flailing and weeping crocodile tears from the injured organ.
I’ve worn contacts since I was 15 and have never, ever had pain like that. Once I pried my lens from the eye (harder than it sounds), I couldn’t believe how much it burned. After cracking a lid open and finding no eyelash or hellspawn or detectable grit, I thoroughly rinsed the contact to try again and . . . NOPE.
For only the second time in my adult life (the first being when I had pink eye — glergh), I wore my glasses to work.
And for the first time in my adult life, I just shunned makeup completely.
It felt weird at first . . . and uncomfortable. Not wanting to be late for work but not yet resigned to wearing my glasses all day, I toyed with the idea of packing my contacts or rinsing my eye again or doing something — anything! — to avoid having to go to work looking like a bedraggled, one-eyed monster, but there was nothing to do.
I saw an eye doctor on my lunch break and was informed my eye was “perfect,” just irritated, so no serious damage done . . . probably just the result of not thoroughly rinsing all the soap from my hands before I touched my eye, or something torn on the contact. No big. But walking around makeup-less and bespectacled, well . . . it was what it was.
And you know what?
It didn’t matter.
If anyone was looking at my mascara-less lashes, I didn’t notice. Or really care. Not just because my eye felt like a flaming orb from a devil-controlled volcano . . . I just, meh. Because I’m a married lady now, maybe? And I’m just not really out to impress anyone? It’s not that I don’t like looking and feeling good . . . I do, of course. But on this particular Friday, with nothing to do but put my head down and work on a series of sections at work, I was just . . . whatever.
It was kind of great.
Thirteen-year-old me — she of the blue eyeliner and pink lipstick, mind — would have been horrified by my plain appearance, but 28-year-old me was content to look a little crazy for one day of her life.
And I did powder my nose, at least.