Makeup and your mind

The other day my friend wore makeup for the first time that I’ve seen. She’s over 60. It looked good. She looked professional and even a bit younger. I noticed that, but it didn’t make me want to wear makeup, something I’ve never done. Oh, I bought some at the drugstore when I was a teenager, and tried it on in the bathroom. No idea why. I was never going to wear it in public. Other people say they “never” wear makeup and they mean only for special occasions. They don’t mean NEVER, like with me. I didn’t have any. I didn’t have a makeup bag or a purse to put it into. I still keep my wallet in my pocket, like a guy.

And I never had that experience that probably 99% of girls did, that is pretty much a stereotype of being a teenage female: doing makeovers on each other. Never did it. I couldn’t even tell you if my friends wore makeup. Thinking back, I guess they did, at least sometimes. And I never wanted to. I was adamant. I don’t remember talking about them with it, but if I did, it was probably that I’m not interested. I tend to be blunt, like that.

And just this week my point of view changed. I saw a makeup look that I could never achieve, and yet it made me want to try and copy it. It was my favourite fusion   bellydancer, who I apparently have not posted about before. Towards the end of one of his wild performances, he turned to the camera and paused, looking pleased with himself. The heavy black painted shadows around his eyes gave an exotic drama. I just wanted to be like him. Of course it would be nice to be 30 years younger and male, too.

See, I could never get into female gender roles, and the female body isn’t that great either with its extra floppy bits. Not as strong as a male, generally. Would have been nice to be a guy and have more social privileges. And to top it off, be a bellydancing male with long hair who can be not-macho (I wouldn’t call it feminine) and still be male. Would have been perfect and pretty much the opposite of what I was, someone cut off from my body and perfectly avoidant about gender roles.

We should be like crows, with no difference between the species. Birds like that mate for life, like me. Different from birds that have special breeding plumage so they can play the mating game each season. I don’t want to play! I don’t know how I flirt. I know how to commit, forever. And it didn’t work, so I’m done with that. I tried and failed. I’m like a crow, but a crow alone.

But anyway, I’m going to bring up the makeup topic with my friend or friends at some point. Maybe the makeover session can still happen. Surely I can’t do this on my own. I can paint a wall or a painting, but not my face. No clue on that. I haven’t been paying attention to how that’s done. I know what I don’t want – thick cakey layers that are going to wipe off on my clothes. In fact, this probably won’t work because, after all, I’m not girly. I’m good with a power drill or an axe or a shovel, not a makeup kit.

 

My life is over?

My life is over?

I’ve definitely felt this for several years. My marriage going down the toilet amplified the feeling and showed that I even screwed up in the one thing that I thought would save me.

And now I’m chasing after something else to fix my life, a new career? A year of job applications got me one interview, but no job. Now I’m trying “networking”, ie connecting with people in the fields I’m interested in. And someone is supposed to like me and if there’s a mutual fit I could be in?

I don’t fit. I never have belonged. I always had to struggle to even play the role of fitting anywhere. I’m a unicorn. I’ll explain next time. I’m spending over $2000 to go to various learning and networking events so that I can connect with people in fields of interest, find out what I need to know, and ultimately make a career change. I fear that “what I need to know” is that “this is not the place for me.” Fifty-five years of that message has brought me much despair.

Taking these steps, making these decisions – it doesn’t feel natural, doesn’t feel comfortable. There are moments of excitement and many more of terror.

When I met my sweetheart, we were both despairing of this world, wanting out, and then hoping for salvation in each other. Turns out we just hurt each other. He found his salvation elsewhere, blaming me a thousandfold with hailstorms of criticism, along the way. I feel so beaten down since our connection failed. I thought we had a plan and a life together, to the end.

In the end, as in the beginning, I am alone and hurting.

Dill seedlings

Dill is up. I stood there staring down at the dirt that doesn’t seem to change quickly. So cold, so slow. Record moisture – even some of the seedlings are too wet and yellowing around the edges.

This is tax weekend, in Canada, for those of us who don’t always plan ahead. Got mine done in 3 hours or so. Maybe next year I’ll file electronically, and it’ll be even faster. I keep my biz records all year, so by tax time they are all ready to go and just need to be exported to a document to print out.

Yeah, so not eating or overindulging tonight. Considered it. But my go-to talisman is my own body. Tuning into it does not make me want to eat. I feel bulky and shapeless, despite having a strong core, despite dancing well for an hour, despite riding my bike and all. Looks like flab-reduction surgery is in my future. But first… stay away from the emotional eating and create even more loose flab. Yech. It’s enough to drive you to drink, but that’s not gonna help. Guess it’s time for a movie, some more dancing, or some creative project after a nice hot bath.

My habits of calmness, happiness, and lightness are relatively new. Small, pale green, and weak, just like those dill seedlings.

Acceptance and letting go

Acceptance and letting go

I would prefer to hang onto old, cracked, and shabby things. Wabi-sabi is good enough for me, and preferable to new and shiny. But in this case I concede the need to let go.

We aren’t comfortable with each other, and haven’t been since the separation. That’s almost two years ago now, and things weren’t great before that. When he ended our sex life, that was the death knell. He thinks I caused the dead bedroom, whereas to me, clearly, I was willing to carry on and he was not.  As with everything else.

Was it ever good? Was it ever secure? There were brief moments of basking in the wonder of seeming-closeness, but it was never that good. Always insecurity lurked in my question, “How can you love me?” Oh, right, you really don’t. Punch in the gut: I accepted this state of being, this lack of connection. Can I connect with anyone, ever?

I remember once I was trying to make conversation with a colleague that I disliked. Suddenly he burst out with, “You’re not connecting with me.” I was astounded. Back in those days, the concept of connecting with someone was not really a frame of reference for me. People have never been an area of expertise for me. Marketing, diplomacy, influence? I’m the opposite, a geek of some sort.

But with my former sweetheart, I thought we would grow together, nurture each other, always care about each other. He said a few times recently that he cares in his own way. Hmm, a way that includes absolute unilateral demands out of nowhere, shifting goal posts, and General Madness (the guy in yesterday’s post. See painting.) I don’t like being cared for in that way. It’s better than being hated, but cold comfort, that.

I hate to let go, but I have to accept that we aren’t going to sit down and sort it out between us. He wouldn’t do that two, three years ago, never mind now. Oh, and the capper, something he said somewhere during the last year. He was always afraid of me. Now it’s my fault that he put himself below me. He had fear; that must be my fault. I don’t believe that, but I know that’s how he sees it. I always saw that he put himself below me. Then suddenly he put himself above me. I don’t think we were ever equal, and equality is a thing that seems critical to me. Equal partners. My ideal, not his.

So it’s “Good” Friday, a time of ending, of suffering, of seeing my own failings, and having compassion. Yes, I have it for him, but today it will be for me. I have never had enough of it.

I’m not a Catholic or a christian or even religious in the slightest, so I googled what Easter is all about. Amazingly, the term “Happy Easter” can actually mean “Talk to the hand” or “Fuck off bitch,” apparently. I say this because of an unfortunate interaction I had with noisy people outside my door today. After claiming the hallway was not a transitional area but rather more of a hangout type social area where loitering was perfectly appropriate, this woman tried to end the discussion by saying “Happy Easter,” ie “Talk to the hand” of Seinfeld fame. I guess her happy Easter didn’t include having any compassion for someone driven mad by her group-yap right outside my door.

So, I can accept and let go, but there are fresh new irritants around every corner, it seems. I don’t use religious euphemisms like “Talk to the hand,” so I translated it for her then and there.