I’m simply not the type of person who makes New Year’s resolutions.
I don’t see the appeal in promising to do something simply because it’s time to turn the calendar, though I know some people wholeheartedly disagree. I won’t quote any disheartening statistics on the rate of failure resolutions so frequently carry with them or any other disparaging facts; if it gives you motivation and drives you to be the best you can be, who am I to knock that?
A hypocrite, that’s who.
Why am I a hypocrite? Because I may have accidentally stumbled into making a resolution of my own.
I’ve always been a very appearance conscious individual, and someone who has the most amazing fun playing with new cosmetics. My eyebrows are fastidiously groomed, my makeup painstakingly and carefully applied, my outfits considered in advance. It sounds lovely when you put it that way, as though it’s some merit badge of my simply having it together.
That pithy description leaves out the fact that I feel horrid should one of those key components of ‘togetherness’ fall to the wayside. I am guilty of having serious anxiety about leaving my house without makeup, feeling as though I need it in order to say to the world, “yes, I am okay. Yes, things are fine. No, I am not sad, tired, angry, hungry, frustrated,
human. I am fine.”
Somewhere along the line, my rouge and eyeliner turned into armor and just stopped being any fun.
When you’re nervous to go barefaced the man you love, the man you’ve promised to spend your life with, the man who watched all the gory details of you birthing his son into the world…
When you realize you’re brandishing perfectly arched brows and contoured foundation as a weapon of self defense…
It hits you that it’s really not fun anymore.
So, no more. I’ve realized my pitfall, and I’m going to dig my way out of it. Perhaps this, like all other resolutions and self improvement plans, will be much more difficult to put into action than to sit around musing about, and no one’s saying I’m chucking my makeup collection out with the trash, either.
What I am saying, what I am promising, is that I’m done feeling like I need to wear it when I know logically that it just isn’t true.
I was put here to be a mother to by son, a wife, a sister, an aunt, a writer, a blogger, an artist… So many things. I wasn’t put here to be a beautiful beacon of post-maternal allure sponsored by Cover Girl.
And that’s okay.