So it has recently come to my attention that women in my town (and more importantly on my Instagram) are now getting eyelash extensions, or some such. Like, they’re going to the salon and having beautiful, long, lush, false eyelashes professionally applied to the tune of several hundred dollars every couple of weeks.
And with that, I surrender. It’s over. I can’t hang.
Dont get me wrong, I DO NOT support natural beauty in any way, shape or form. I workout, I color my hair, I usually strive to maintain the illusion of 2 separate eyebrows. Most people wouldn’t even see my mustache unless they were super close. I make an effort. But I have to draw a line.
Now, this is not a moral, ethical or otherwise ideological line, mind you. All of a sudden it just kind of hit me that I will never have the kind of funds to hang with the kind of bitch that throws down good grocery money on an eyelash weave. And don’t even get me started on the rest of her face. Botox and fillers and plumpers and peels. Fat freezing and sucking and lasers and fucking microblades. The local Groupon possibilities are endless, but I’m a little wary of awarding my face to the lowest bidder.
It’s too much. I don’t even know where to start unfavorably comparing myself. When my fucking eyelashes are all of a sudden half an inch shy of fucking BritneyFitdotcom, I’m throwing in the towel on the motherfucker. What’s next? What other aspect of my face have I heretofore naively neglected to realize was inadequate? Is it my molars? Tell me it’s not an earlobe thing.
So here I go, schelpping my twins with me to the gym everyday, fighting an inevitably losing battle, no makeup, boobs I was born with (or, more accurately, not born with), ratty ass yoga pants from around the time my first child was born. There are beautiful women everywhere, with that perfectly preserved, carefree kind of attitude that I imagine comes with the abundant resources of time and money. I’m sweating and grunting and wondering if my pants are old enough to be see-through yet, while the local townspeople glisten delicately and choose their Instagram filters. I’m trying to figure out what corners I can cut, what can be super-setted, will I have time to maybe get in a few minutes of cardio at work this afternoon, do I need to pick up dog food, should I call the accountant, what is a bitcoin, I’m scared of ISIS.
When my workout is done, or at least as done as it’s going to be, I head over to child care to grab my kids. My son lights up when he sees me and comes running at me like runaway train. My daughter jumps up with a thick stack of mermaid pictures with her best attempt at “I love mommy” on the top of each page. They’re laughing and talking over each other trying to tell me everything I’ve missed in the past 48 minutes, and not once do they mention my eyelashes.