a face to meet the faces that you meet

Another Monday morning.

Just like any other Monday, I woke to the dark and cold and left in the dark and cold, and am now sitting blearily on the bus listening to human breath transformed into notes - the breathing of dead men. 

Rather atypically for a Monday, however, was a certain forgetfulness. I forgot to set my alarms last night. Fortunately my biorhythms prodded me up into consciousness only two minutes past when my alarm is supposed to go off. And I forgot my makeup bag.

Makeup has stood as a cornerstone of how I "prepare a face to meet the faces that I meet" since my adolescence, when my mother taught me its tasteful application and thus saved me from five or six years of garish cake layers of cheap foundation and spider lashes that seem typical of teenagers trying to teach themselves how to wear it.  I always prided myself in the subtlety of my art, the daily not-quite-blank canvas of my face awaiting my rendering.  Over the years I have gone through various phases or more and less dramatic in my overall approach, although which end of the binary is never clear unless in retrospect; right now I would say the focus is dramatic eyes, with less an emphasis on skin, which is spotted anyway from twenty-three years of picking.  The morning ritual frequently relaxes me - losing myself in the details, forgetting language and thought in a quiet rhythm of self care.

When I took this job at the beginning of March of last year, leaving so early for the bus presented me with three choices: get up insanely early to put on my makeup at home; put on my makeup on the bus; or put it on at work.  The first option sucked, the second was too bumpy, so, Goldilocks-style, I landed on the pleasing "just right" of the third.  I arrive at work half an hour early, put on my makeup, and acclimate myself to another day in the quiet of my little office. 

Ordinarily my makeup bag lives in my larger tote that accompanies me to work filled with other vital objects like books, journal and (now) my portable keyboard; but this weekend I actually wore makeup, and forgot to place the bag back in the tote, which I didn't realize until I was most of the way to the bus stop.  I briefly considered turning around, then realized I didn't care enough to risk running late.

Soooo now I get to spend the day reflecting on the effect of the beauty standards on women and analyzing my various responses to my own social transgression - the panic at remembering, the shame at showing up to work looking unprofessional, the quiet defiance at deciding makeup is technically unnecessary anyway and fuck anyone who thinks otherwise, the anxiety at looking less pretty than usual, the dread of all the comments about how tired I look.  For the most part I have worked hard to define myself as I see fit and worry less about the mainstream opinions of those around me (anyone who has seen my particular style of dress knows this), but makeup is a tough one.   I do love the way it makes me look.

Today will be interesting, in that respect, at least.  Bare faced and staring down the world. 

It's stupid, the little things that require courage of women.  I have ladders to climb, shit to get done, important things to do, and here I am worrying about a few layers of cream and powder on a tiny portion of my skin.  Fuck you, systemic sexism.  Thanks for exhausting my internal resources on either submitting to or rebelling against your exacting standards for my appearance, as if that is all I have to offer.