Early in my widowhood, I took Angelic Daughter downtown to see “Wicked” at what used to be called the Schubert Theater. It’s now called the CIBC Theater, after some bank that acquired it, but it will always be the Schubert to me.
Which is just one more indication that I have officially entered the Crooked Lipstick years.
Allow me to explain.
On that same excursion downtown to see a show, we first ate lunch at a restaurant across the street. It wasn’t until we visited the ladies room while waiting for the check that I realized, when I went to wash my hands and saw myself in the mirror, that there were two little curls of lipstick curving up from each corner of my mouth. I looked like Chuckie, the evil doll from those horror movies (and I hate horror movies and had never seen that one — just images of that very scary doll).
Apparently I had looked that way through the entire meal, and maybe even through the entire train ride downtown. I laughed and fixed my lipstick and went back to the table to pay the check. Kudos to the server, who, in a stunning display of self control, made it through the meal without so much as a snicker or a smirk. I imagine an explosion of mirth once he disappeared into the kitchen after processing my payment.
I wrote that one off to mere accident – perhaps I sipped on my water glass at an angle or something and picked up a lip print I’d left on the previous gulp.
But lately I’ve found that I can’t seem to get my lipstick right, no matter how carefully I apply it. One peak of my upper lip always comes out a bit lower than it’s twin on the other side. Or when I go “mmmm” to blend the lipstick around, I find I’ve overstepped the boundary of my lower lip, pushing lipstick beyond it into the canvas of my foundation at the top of my chin.
What the hell is going on here?
One of my new MeetUp friends sympathized, observing that our lips get thinner as we age. And on the bright side, several other friends have commented that I have beautiful skin (thank you, Oil of Olay, and no, I didn’t get paid for saying that — yet).
But how come my Mom could apply lipstick perfectly well into her eighties without even looking in a mirror? Go figure. Greatest generation women could do that, I guess. Maybe the lipstick formulas were so different then that there was less chance of a smudge or a smear into non-lip territory.
I take comfort in the fact that I’ve been told multiple times that I don’t look my age. Yet among all the pleasantries, cards, flowers, and my little “officially retired” tiara and beauty pageant style banner bestowed on me on the day of my recent retirement (from a job I’d held for only four and a half years, but if my retirement funds last long enough, it will have been the last full-time job I held in my long and eclectic “career”), not one person said, “but you don’t look anywhere near old enough to retire!”
I chalk that up to a workplace that has instilled a strong consciousness of work-inappropriate topics of discussion, which include talking directly about someone’s age. I always referred to my younger colleagues as “less experienced.”
But still.
So in addition to the other indignities of age, which include taking too long to recall the name of a flower, an actor, or someone I’ve known for years, being addressed as “ma’am,” turkey-neck, and never, ever being asked for ID when buying a beer at the ballgame, we can add an inability to apply lipstick perfectly within the boundaries of my actual lips.
Well, I always was a bit of a drama queen:
In just under a month, I will cross a threshold that plants me firmly and irretrievably into “senior” status. I plan to relish it. I will ask for discounts everywhere I go, confidently flashing my AARP card and responding with shock and disdain when any establishment refuses me 10% off (or more). I will lift my eyebrow and silently communicate my disapproval with a whiff of “oh, I get it, you don’t want my business because I’m old, is that it?” as I complete my purchase and sashay toward the door, head held high, crooked lipstick gleaming.
Until then, I remain,
your I’m-a-senior-citizen-and-I-don’t give-a-crap-and-I-can-wear-do-or-say-anthing-I-want,
Ridiculouswoman