The makeup junkie speaks

I’m not exactly sure how this happened, but I’ve somehow developed an addiction to makeup. What started out as an innocent romp in the land of pearly eye shadows and sparkly lip glosses has turned into a near-obsessive fascination. Strangely, though, if you had told me a year ago that I’d soon become gaga over makeup, I’d have thought you were crazy. I’ve spent over 28 years practically makeup-free. It’s not that I ever had an issue with other people wearing makeup. It just didn’t feel right for me, and I couldn’t be bothered to spend the time putting it on. (It already takes me long enough to get ready in the morning—ask anyone who’s ever lived with me. I’m a total slowpoke when it comes to preparing for my daily grand entrance into the outside world. Who needs to add another 5 to 10 minutes to the process?) But now I find myself staring at women’s eyes on the subway. I actually pay attention to magazine cover girls. I carefully examine what they put where. I look at colours, amounts, application techniques. Is that a hint of silver I see just on the inside corners of her eyes? Hmm, I wonder if she uses an eyelash curler. It looks like she doesn’t wear mascara on her bottom lashes. Is that brown eyeliner? Ah, I see.

My makeup addiction started innocently as I got ready to go to my friend’s wedding this past fall. I decided I wanted to be pretty, so after coordinating my adorable black dress and killer heels, I took a trip to the drugstore to pick up 4 key makeup items: eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss (with sparkles, of course!). So I wore makeup to the wedding. And then at Christmas. And then to the occasional party. And then to work on days when I felt like dressing up. And then to work on days when I was dressing down but wanted to look a bit more edgy. (I learned that smudged eyeliner can work wonders.) And now I have to almost stop myself from wearing it every day. Like, literally, there are days when I want to wear makeup to work and I intentionally forbid myself from putting it on.

Why the ridiculous restraint, you ask? Here are my reasons.

First, I’m not always convinced that my makeup looks good after I’m done applying it. Okay, big time confession here: I, the makeup virgin, am not very good at makeupping myself. Yes, sometimes I even get mascara in my hair. (I hang my head in shame.) And then there was the time when I intended to create a smoky eye but the result was a cross between Tammy Faye Bakker and Liza Minelli. I have to keep reminding my fledgling self that less is more before I end up getting busted by the makeup police.

Second, I’m afraid of developing a crippling dependence on the stuff—you know, like becoming the kind of woman who can’t go outside without “putting my face on.” (I shudder at the thought of ever uttering those very words.) I don’t ever want to feel inadequate if my eyes and lips haven’t been painted on. Girls and women are continually told that we’re not good enough just the way we are. Remember Maybelline’s slogan? “Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.” Well, sorry, Maybelline, but I kind of want to spend my life believing that I’m born with it. I don’t want to feed on the cosmetics industry’s bullshit or ever feel like I look like a corpse when my face is naked.

But, more importantly, I keep asking myself: what does this new affinity for makeup say about my gender presentation? Who is this new femme that looks back at me in the mirror? Do I even like her? Someone once described my gender as “butchy femme.” But is the new made-up me waving goodbye to any hints of butch-ness that I might have previously harboured? Am I becoming a conventional girly-girl?

Now, before I get myself into some serious hot water, I should make it very clear that I think femmes are great and it’s not my intention to bash femininity (because we all already know that girls and feminine things are generally undervalued in our world). I guess the reason I feel so conflicted is because I’ve always prided myself in my ability to gender fuck, and my compulsion to look like a cover girl makes me feel like I’m selling out. It makes me feel like I’m becoming ordinary. And what’s the fun in that?

Anyway, if you see me wearing makeup, you should probably know that I both love it and hate it at the same time. And, if you think it looks good, you should go ahead and tell me because, if you’re lucky, I just might bat my long and perfectly voluminous lashes at you in return.

I vote to clone Sue Johanson

There was an article in the Globe and Mail a couple of weeks ago that questioned the necessity of high school sexual education classes, positing that the rise of online resources, such as Sex Etc. (sexetc.org) and sexualityandu.ca, provide ample information for those seeking to be enlightened. Just the thought of having to discuss this point makes my hands automatically form into little fists of rage. But now that I’ve managed to uncurl my fingers, I’m sitting down at the computer and writing down what I think about how we should be teaching and learning about sex.

I went to a Catholic, all-girls high school. We didn’t have sex ed classes: we had “health” classes that were lumped into our phys ed classes. Given my cloistered teenage years, I’m not really sure what the rest of the kids in the more progressive public school system were learning about sex, but, in the little nunnery that my parents forced me to go to, I learned very little. I do recall watching a video called “The Miracle of Life” in which we learned about how a baby is conceived and then watched it be born into the world. Keeping true to the subject of health, we also learned about all the symptoms of various STIs and had to memorize those for the exam later on. Too bad we were never told how to try and prevent ourselves from getting those STIs. Of course, there was no mention made of condoms, gloves or dental dams; there were no queers in the picture; and there was never any discussion of where one might get a safe abortion (because good, Catholic teenage girls aren’t supposed to be getting pregnant anyway). Classes were kind of like, “Here are the symptoms for a whole bunch of STIs, okay, girls? Now let’s go and play field hockey.”

And what can be worse than this watered down version of sex ed? Well, how about no sex ed? Yup, the province of Quebec has decided to eliminate sex ed classes altogether, working in favour of incorporating sexual education into all classes. Okay, so not to be a doubting Thomas or anything, but do they really think this is a viable way of disseminating sexual information? Other than the fact that sex ed should be taught by qualified, knowledgeable instructors, I also just can’t imagine how the subject will regularly be incorporated into other classes. “Hey, kids, have you ever noticed how a test tube sort of looks like a condom?” or, “Did anyone know that Lady Macbeth enjoyed fisting?”

Some will argue that sex ed classes aren’t all that useful to teenagers because teens are often too shy and embarrassed to ask the questions they want answered. They’d rather go to a website and get the answers they’re looking for. Sure, this is partly true. The 13-year-old boy who wants to learn about female orgasms probably isn’t going to ask the teacher while sitting amongst his friends. But does this lead us to forfeiting sexual education altogether? Not the way I see it.

Wouldn’t it be better if we had properly trained educators who facilitated sex ed classes for teens? Wouldn’t it be great if we could clone Sue Johanson and send her to every high school across the country, giving kids the lowdown on what to do down below? (By the way, and I’m totally digressing here, I have to say that I think Sue Johanson deserves to be canonized. She is the definition of amazing.) Not talking about sex doesn’t make things better. In fact, part of the reason a lot of people don’t want to talk about sex is because we never learned how to talk about it in the first place. And you’re not going to figure out how to negotiate with your sexual partner by merely looking up stuff on a website.

Don’t get me wrong: sexetc.org and sexualityandu.ca are great sites where teenagers and adults can learn a heck of a lot about sex. But I really do hope that the rest of Canada doesn’t follow Quebec’s lead and start eliminating sex ed classes or, worse yet, adopt the U.S. abstinence-only model. It’s just so important to have an arena to talk about all the fun things we can do with our bodies. And, compared with boring old chemistry or history classes, wouldn’t kids rather be in sex ed class talking about getting hot and heavy? If I were still in high school, I sure would.

Memo to Self Re: February

Dear Mr. Lady,

Given February’s trickster status as the shortest month that feels like the longest, it is imperative to document what you should avoid during this sneaky second month of the year. For future reference and for the sake of self-preservation, here lies my list of what not to do (based on current experience gathered during February 2008).

Do not be neurotic. If possible, this advice should be stretched out to the 11 other months of the year. But, in worst case scenario, no neurotic behaviour should be permitted in February at least.

Do not go to the dollar store on your lunch break and stand in the longest and slowest-moving line behind a lady who can only deal with the line by shoving the people in front of her, as though the shoving will magically propel the line forward.

Do not fantasize about body checking fellow transit riders while commuting to and from work. Such fantasies will only end badly.

Do not develop an unrequited crush on a hot young thing a week before Valentine’s Day. All unrequited amorous feelings are strictly verboten in February.

Do not have an endoscopy, find out that you have non-ulcer dyspepsia (which isn’t a serious condition anyway), and then accidentally almost kill the plant your father gave you after said endoscopy. It’s not the cyclamen’s fault that your stomach is uncooperative.

Do not eat sushi on a Monday. In fact, you should never do this. Any chef will tell you that Monday’s fish is not fresh.

Do not buy canned mattar paneer even if you do find yourself confusedly stumbling through the aisles of the health food store just before dinnertime. It doesn’t taste or look like cat food, but it does sort of smell like it, and, for this reason, canned Indian food is completely unacceptable fare. And, while we’re on the subject of cans, do not convince yourself that a can of corn is a suitable vegetarian dinner for one. Adding a glass of white wine to the meal does not count as “jazzing it up.”

Do not come home from work, sit on the couch and listen to Neil Young while eating fudge in an attempt to remedy the February blahs. It doesn’t work.

Despite what Le Tigre says, do not fool yourself into believing that if you put on some eyeliner then things are fine and are going to get much finer.

And, finally, do not tell yourself that the winter is almost over. No matter what the groundhog says, do not listen to his forecast. Whether it’s Wiarton Willie or Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog is wrong.

Sincerely,
Your fabulous self