ninanevermore: (Default)
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I wasn’t getting near enough sleep. As a result of this, the areas under my eyes were swollen, like my face was providing little pillows to invite my eyelids to drop down and take a snooze. It looked awful.

I read somewhere a long time ago that there is a very simple and effective remedy for this. Maybe not as effective as getting enough sleep would be, but available over the counter (extra time to get much needed sleep still not being available without a prescription): hemorrhoid cream. I read that it works wonders. But I did not immediately run out and buy this magic elixir because of the imaginary 6th grader that lives in my head. If I were to walk into a pharmacy and purchase that particular product, the 6th grader in my head would mock me and say, “ASS cream?! Why are you buying ASS cream?! Are you going to put it on your face?!!!!”

Since the answer is yes, that’s exactly why I would be buying it, I would refuse to answer the 6th grader, who would then exclaim, “Ha! I knew it! Ass-face! Ha-ha! You’re an ass-face!”

I hate that kid, but I hated the bags under my eyes even more. So I punched the 6th grader in her imaginary face and purchased the hemorrhoid cream. For my face. It worked like a charm. I have no regrets. I may have an ass face, but it looks presentable again.

Even the 6th grader in my head agrees.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
ninanevermore: (Default)
My husband says he has always been attracted to “the girl next door,” and always found women considered to be classically beautiful to be sort of bland, he claims. He turns up his nose at the women in Playboy magazine, for example.

“They all look the same!” he complains, “And they’re so airbrushed that you can’t even tell what they really look like, anyway. Real women don’t look like that. Real women have stretch marks, and curves to their tummies, and thighs. I don’t see anything attractive about them. They look like plastic Barbie dolls. I like real women. I like women like you.

Of course, as a woman, I interpret this to mean, I only love you because you’re ugly. Let’s face it: whatever a man says to a woman about her looks, he’s wrong.

What if the beholder is blind? )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
“Use these to draw a picture of yourself,” he told me, handing me a sheet of paper and some tubes of colored glitter-glue dispensers.

“A picture of myself?”

“Yes, wearing a dress.”

I don’t wear skirts or dresses very much, in large part because you have to pay attention to how you sit when you wear them. I am a little over 5 feet tall, and since my feet don’t touch the floor in every chair that I sit in I’m often tempted to wrap my legs around the legs of the chair so they don’t dangle in the air. I’ve found that trousers save me and the person sitting across me a lot of embarrassment, and so they are my garment of choice. Sweet Pea has been looking at my wedding photos, though, and my wedding was one occasion where I did wear a dress. It was long, so it didn’t matter how I sat in it.

Photos allow you to invite your unborn children to your wedding. )
ninanevermore: (Default)
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the day it was determined by the women I worked with one part of my body is substandard, and that I don't have to worry about men watching me from behind because there is nothing to see there.

No back to this baby )
ninanevermore: (Default)
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how there are so few pictures of me in existence. My mother-in-law and a couple of distant friends have been asking me to send photos, and I've tried to tell them that there are none to send. Since high school, I have made a great effort to always be behind and not in front of the camera lens. It has occurred to me that when I die, there will be little photographic evidence that I ever existed.

My drivers license number should be 666 )
ninanevermore: (Default)
Today I was thinking about my facial features, and how I never liked them until I saw them on my son's face. I can't explain it: they just look better on him than they do on me.

"He nose is so cute!" I told my husband this weekend, after I kissed the aforementioned cute nose. When you become parents, your conversations become cute in themselves.

"Oh course it's cute. It's your nose," Jeff said. My son, meanwhile, reached up to grab the tip of my nose, which he had learned makes me say, "Beeeep!"

I scowled at my son's round button of a nose. "It looks better on him. I don't like it on me. It's too round. Beeeeep!"

My son reached up and grabbed the tip of his father's nose, which makes Jeff say, "Honnnnnk!"

"I've always thought your nose was adorable," Jeff said. "Honnnnnk!"

Our son laughed like a maniac. Grab the Nose is his favorite game right now.

"Beeeeep! Maybe my nose just goes better on a masculine face. Or at least a baby face. Beeeeep! Beep!"

"You have a baby face. It goes with your face just fine. It's cute. I love it. Honnnnnk!"

I decided to distract our son by grabbing the tip of his nose to involve it in the game. The sound his nose makes is "Meep!" I provide the sound effect for him. He touched his nose in astonishment and squeezed it to make it say "Meep!" again.

Of course his nose sounds more like my nose than his father's nose. After all, it looks like my nose, only smaller. And cuter. Much, much cuter.

My nose, in miniature )
ninanevermore: (Default)
Today on the drive into work, I thought about New Year's resolutions and how glad I am that I don't make them any more.

A resolve to never resolve again )
ninanevermore: (Default)
Today I woke up and looked in the mirror, and did not recognize the face looking back. Whoever that was in my mirror, I didn't like her. Her expression was bland, her hair too unkempt, her skin too blotchy, her cheeks too pail.

Later, when I went back, I still didn't like the person, but I didn't hate her either. Ah, what a difference a little caffeine and some makeup makes.
ninanevermore: (Default)
On the drive into work this morning, I actually hit all of the lights on green. This was not a good thing. I put on my makeup and fix my hair at the multitude of red lights on the way in, and neither of those things happened today.

As a result, I look like hell. I fear for my co-workers. It is very important that they look at me using only their peripheral vision today, as looking at me directly could lead to blindness and possible death.

Tomorrow I will try to apply concealer to the scary spots, as a public service. It's the least I can do for people.
ninanevermore: (Default)
Today at The Stop Light, I pulled up in the middle lane to rest in between two beautiful young women driving nicer cars than mine.

Why does being around pretty people make me feel ugly, but being around ugly people not make me feel any prettier?

I'm not self conscious about the car. The car is so unremarkable as to be invisible. But even at my most attractive point, all I had was a sort of endearing cuteness going for me. My limbs have never been long and smooth and perfect, my stomach never flat. My eyes have never knocked anyone off their feet, my face has never attracted attention. My gifts have always been a sharp mind and a sharper wit, but I would have traded them both to be photogenic. When you are beautiful, you don't have to be smart, whereas when you are not beautiful, being smart is the only way to stand out, to matter.

The light changed, and I drove off to get away from the two reminders of my shortcomings, feeling further depressed by this realization:

Not only am I plain, I'm incredibly shallow.


ninanevermore: (Default)

April 2017



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