{This post was originally published in May of 2011.}
I’ve always been one of those girls who people describe as very smart with a great sense of humor.
Close your eyes and picture someone who has been described with only those words. What do you see? Be honest.
Now before you think I’m begging for compliments and start filling up my comments with, “I’ve seen you! You’re cute!”, let me add that I do have some attractive physical features. My point is that those are not so noteworthy that they come to mind first (or second or third or fourth) when people describe me.
While some supermodel types have been blessed with a laundry list of physical assets from long legs to a beautiful face to Michelle Obama arms, I was born with just a couple stand out features. Most notably I’ve always had great hair, a great – pardon the expression – rack, and gorgeous long eyelashes. After giving birth to two amazing children who sucked the life force from me, my hair downgraded to standard. My once long, luscious mane is now best kept in a shorter style with some quirky highlights to distract the eye from thinner areas. The rack? Well, here’s the thing about that. Anyone can purchase one of those. And here’s where it gets tricky.
I cannot finance a pair of legs that go on for miles no matter how good my credit score, so it’s always bothered me that any Suzie Q who wants my cup size can just purchase a pair like she’s buying a used Escort.
This brings me to my eyelashes. I have long, thick eyelashes that curl at just the right moment without the use of that medieval torture device called an eyelash curler and even without the purchase of the miracle mascara du jour. Instead, Maybelline Great Lash and I have been turning heads together since the early 90’s. My eyelashes are so distracting that once in high school a crazy girl named Renee whose hair was teased so high it nearly touched the ceiling tried to pull my “fake eyelashes” off in the cafeteria. Needless to say my contact popped out instead and Renee was no longer trusted within arms length of my face.
Then along comes Latisse. I hoped with all of my being that it was a trick, some medical smoke and mirror game that would leave women disappointed and thin lashed. After all, this was my final physical frontier. I needed to protect my territory. But instead I hear story after story of lashes that go on for miles, thick, dark, deliriously delicious. Suddenly there’s nothing about my physical appearance that cannot be replicated with just a visit to the doctor.
I hate you, Latisse.
At least I’m still smart with a great sense of humor.