Some days you’re majestic, magnetic…charismatic. Your hair falls perfectly; your laugh sounds like bells; your skin is luminous…dewy. Your teeth are sparkling, lips lined, filled, and glossed. Your jeans hug your form; your blouse skims; your handbag matches your new flats- without giving the impression of purposeful unmatching; your nails shine, freshly coated in a complementary shade of red.
Some days you are. And maybe a few of your friends. Not here, Babe. I’m a Southern girl, but there’s no Southern belle within me. Eye candy, arm candy, trophy wife material I am not. There are plenty of those. Elsewhere.
In all fairness, though, I do confess my one true vanity is my hair. I’ve never colored it. It doesn’t frizz in the humidity of an Alabama summer. When someone photographs me, I may say, “Ugh. Don’t make me look fat!” But all I really care about is my hair.
And I have to smell good. I reckon that counts as another vanity. Good hygiene is a necessity, but smelling fabulous requires a semiannual pilgrimage to the BX for perfume. If a scent can be found at Wal-Mart, even in the locked display, it ain’t for me.
My sister once described my laugh as Eddie Murphy after a bad set.
“Like, you know- like Donkey, right?”
Yeah. Like, I get it. Like, I KNOW, right??!
If it’s funny, I laugh. If you’d rather not fall victim to my (in)famous cola sprays, you’d best sit beside me. Sitting across from me puts you squarely in the soak zone, Dear.
My skin is perfectly dewy- when I get out of the shower.
I put most of my hope in a jar… out of a jar, because even though Pond’s Cold Creme is more cost-effective, and incidentally smells the exact same, Oprah put her Hope in a Jar. So why wouldn’t I?
Sparkling white teeth are hard to come by down here. Fortunately, I’m enamored with neither Mountain Dew nor meth, so my teeth are all original equipment. I’ve perfected my Leslie Jones “don’t even think about it” face. Even the little makeup people in the mall don’t bother with me anymore. I might still have some of Meir’s lipstick, around here, somewhere. But I am pretty happy with my stripper glitter lip gloss from Bath and Body Works. Every cosmetic I own, along with accompanying applicators, fits in a quart sized Ziploc bag.
Where was I? Ah, yes. Jeans. I own lots of them. There are times I must wear pants not made for shopping at Wal-Mart. Jeans are as dressed up as I ever get. If I can’t go in my yoga pants, and can’t get by in jeans, then wherever you’re going is too high falutin for me, anyway.
I don’t own any blouses. I have tshirts, in every imaginable size, color, cut, and age. Spanx does help them skim, rather than cling. Even I draw the line at back fat. You just can not suck in back fat.
I have one “bag” if you don’t count the one I take to work. It was a gift…from my not at all fashionably challenged friend. And, bonus (!!), it does match my shoes. They are all black. If Nike doesn’t make it, I’m not likely to wear it. I dread the day Nike designs “flats”. Oh! Y’all might like this… I do own a pair of heels in every basic color. Beige, black, and navy. They were all Meir’s.
I had my nails “done” once. All that manicuring makes a girl’s nails unpalatable and is a bitter problem when she has to chew them off. Which I do, frequently. I asked Mama once how long I had been chewing my nails, she figured I started round about the time I had teeth on both top and bottom.
My toenails stay pretty, like my hair, by some freaky quirk of nature. A sweet little pixie, wielding a wand of polish, shows up in the middle of the night, and well… I woke up like this.
~ Rouge and paint makes you look like you ain’t.
Your heart is the one place you cain’t paint. ~
~ Be real, or be gone.~
Be blessed, either way, Y’all!