I Miss: Getting Ready
note: there are many things that I miss during this time, traveling, seeing my family, girl’s night, — through this series, I examine the small things, the minutia that I miss, aspects of my life that I took for granted
It was never about having the makeup make me feel better about how I looked. It only enhanced what I already had. It was about the artistry, the thought that I could pick who I would be that night; glitter goddess, lady in black, disco star. Knowing that the night under the hot white light would end with a walk home, a high kick out the door, and something greasy in the oven.
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Like with the boys in my grade, I had a complicated relationship with makeup in high school. Embarrassed by the way I looked, acne emerging every week I would try and smother my face with whatever oil-filled cream foundation I could find, unfortunately sometimes with stage makeup. In the morning rides to school, my mom pointed out my face never matched my neck. Me, embarrassed by the thought that the makeup I bought at Sephora with my new debit card was a mark of adulthood, individualism, never changed it. I only hopped for the days my dad would bring me to school, dropped off at the train station while he went to his commute, never taking notice of the mismatched shade of my face.
These were the days of bronzer in December, of $2 eyeliner from CVS in blue and green. Every Wednesday I folded over my favorite pair of PINK boot cut yoga pants, sometimes tucking them into my Uggs, and took what I called ‘no makeup Wednesday’. This was my rebellion, my ‘skincare break’ my fight against the nightly Proactiv routine. The only night I felt truly connected to my face was for my best friend’s sweet 16 — after a storm knocked all the -lights off I sat on my floor and did my makeup by candlelight.
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When I got to college I learned quickly — it only took a few poorly lit basements and long campus walks home to realize that the only way to get noticed was to make my face sparkle. I always had the lips figured out — being raised by 2 generations of Long Island women taught me to never leave the house without a little lip color. Slowly I would start branching out, and the color would find its way to my eyes — cutting the liner sharply, embellishing with that week’s glitter shade (and in the later years, topping off the look with the Fenty highlight).
Getting ready reached a new level when I moved off-campus. No longer painting for the fluorescent light, I would set up, usually on the kitchen table, and take hours to examine each crack and crevice of my face, gossip, and then belt out whichever song was playing in the other room. It was the texting flying between phones about how neither one of us was ready, but to come over anyway so we could finish our makeup together. Perfecting the practice, sipping, brushing, contouring, spraying, yelling, singing, sipping. It was never about where we were going, walks and tumbles down the street, squeezing into cars, whisked away to be illuminated by the lights of the city. How blisters would work on feet, sweat dripped down faces, how the perfected lipstick would slowly migrate down the face to be wiped away in the bathroom.
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I miss getting ready. The act of assembling my war paint for the night, putting on a playlist and letting the next 1–4 hours unfold before me, sprawled out like the makeup poured out from the bags collected in my room. Mixing colors and drinks, gossiping with friends, unfolding the week’s events and testing out the vocal cords before a night of screaming singing and stomping on the floor. I miss the anticipation of the night, starting with a wipe of a brush and ending in glitter, sweat, and blisters.
Top songs to get ready to:
freakum dress — beyoncé
smooth — santana, featuring rob thomas from the group matchbox 20
rock me — one direction
On (or around) this day in history:
may 26, 2017 — junior year of college, summer
I’m back at Chester with brings back a lot of memories and a lot of different emotions — some lonely, others optimistic and fun. These past two days have been weird emotional ones. I wake up not just alone, but lonely. My heart’s been hurting these days. That’s the compilation of all of this, knowing what I want is something inherently bad for me, but still wanting it anyway. Maybe I changed too much when I went abroad. Maybe I didn’t change at all.