After Mark shows his cards to Juliet on Christmas Eve, he walks away saying, “Enough now.” Love Actually fans know. The phrase comes to mind whenever there is wallowing, pity parties of a personal nature or too much reflection on success levels. This morning I slept until 8:43, woke up feeling very alone, trapped and over-quarantined. Tears threatened.
One coffee later, “Enough now.”
I know what it is. It’s lack of routine. Lack of the familiar, of the faces we see each day, the voices that interrupt our work, the wrenches that make the day interesting, a drink after work with a bestie, Mexican food and the ability to say, “No, I’m going to stay in.”
It’s also a lack of makeup and dresses dammit. Enough now.
Meat Loaf, volume ten, joins me in the bathroom, makeup strewn over every open space. Another coffee. Confused skittish tabby sits mid floor wondering if there are treats.
Instead of moisturizer and primer, I slather coconut oil. Some say it’s the secret to turning back time. Perhaps for someone else. Just emphasized lines and etches that no longer have the ability to be “minimized” or cleverly hidden. Keep going. Foundation, shadows, concealer, highlighter, liner, bronzer and beloved mascara dance about creating the mask that brings this girl to life. By the time I get to lips, I’m feeling quite bold.
From the back of the drawer, I spy the shade “British Red.” It’s not a usual choice due to brightness and orange hue. Cool undertones are supposed to choose blue-based hues. Will it matter in quarantine? I swipe with abandon. Again and again, creating an exaggerated cupid’s bow and slather on gloss.
Pull hair back and put on a dress. No, not that one. Nor that one. Throw them on the floor as if they’re naughty for not making me feel better. Find the proper one–halter-ish making the shoulder bones cancer etched into my back visible and the line appear thinner than it actually is; Nacho Cheese Doritos being on the menu of late.
Enough now. We cannot quit quarantine but we can control parts of it. Two weeks of a bare face and sweat pants is more than a girl cant take. I’m slipping into barbarism. Netflix is all fun and games until it’s the only game in town. Eventually, a girl gets on the floor and does sit ups. I know, right? A girl might even pretend to be a ballerina using an imaginary barre.
Enough now. I devour a salad as if my life depends upon lettuce for sustenance. What the hell is happening? Is it the curse of Coronavirus? Or is it simply the voice deep inside screaming, “Do you.”
Accept that you are the girl who gets dressed up. Or doesn’t. Accept that you eat well. Or you don’t. Accept that staying inside makes you crazy. Or it makes you productive. Or makes you cling to a loved one. Or feel blessed that you have time to cook. Or clean closets. Or just be. Whatever it is–do you.
For this girl, it means accepting I’m not the girl I thought I was. Netflix is fun because there is so little time for it. Sweat pants–well they’ve never been my pant of choice. Pants are not my pant of choice. I am a dress girl. Just am. Bare faced has never been the way I go to the grocery store. Or even stay home on a Saturday. Good god what if someone stops by? Even the Amazon guy does not deserve that.
Let’s stop going against who we are because the world is flailing around us. Remember your gifts, your talents, you. Be you. Do you. Love yourself through this. Love those around you. Connect. Reach out. Eat. Dance. Write. Read. Garden. Walk. Love.