“OK, so here’s the thing,” I told the saleslady. “I have never really worn makeup. Up until now, I have only used a powder thingy that I got at the drugstore. I don’t even know if it was the right color for my skin tone. But it worked. And then today, I woke up and realized that it has stopped working. I think I need something more.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You are 41, 42 years old?”
“Yes,” I said sadly. “I’m 42.”
She sat me down and told me that when a woman is my age, it’s time to start wearing “big-girl makeup.” Foundation, concealer, powder-all of it. She told me that she was 43, about to turn 44, and the same thing happened to her last year. I smiled and told her I had merely just turned 42 in January, proud of my youth. She then applied what seemed like eight pounds of play dough onto my face. But when I looked in the mirror, I realized that it really helped. I looked better. I actually looked younger.
I don’t like getting older. I do not let my children’s friends call me Mrs. Primack. I know that these kids are referring to me this way out of respect. But I always scream, “No! Do not ever call me that!” When I volunteer at my youngest child’s school, I refuse to be called Mrs. Primack or even “Aidan’s mom.” I am told that I am the first and only mom in the history of the first grade to be referred to as “Allyson.”
I admit that I am annoyed by Kate Midleton’s stylish appearance only 12 hours after giving birth to her second child. Hours after the birth of my second child, I looked like I had just emerged after surviving ten years in a Mexican prison for dealing drugs. (Actually, I think that I looked like that for about five years after I had her.)
But I have to say, I admire the fact that Kate went outside and waved to reporters with her hair freshly done and a full face of makeup while wearing Jimmy Choo high heel shoes. She waved and whispered softly to her husband while adoringly staring down at her baby.
I admire her because I know she was probably gushing blood and peeing in her pants. Her milk was probably just starting to come in, and she was feeling l like someone had put her breasts in vices that were being slowly tightened. She most likely whispered to William, “I hate you and your stupid family so much for making me do this.” While caressing her baby, she probably thought how badly she hoped some nurse would take her far, far away the moment she got back into the hospital. She probably threw those fucking Jimmy Choos at Prince Charles’ face and told him to see how Camila would feel if she had to stand there and wave to the world in 6-inch heels and a yellow dress after squeezing an 8 pound person out of her crotch without an epidural.
So I do not hate Princess Kate. In fact, I am totally impressed by her performance because I can relate. I will continue to slather on liquid goo all over my face and insist that young children call me by my first name so that no one notices that I’m aging. As long as I look and act the part, no one can really question what is actually going on inside of me.
As Bruce Jenner so magnificently told Diane Sawyer, just because a woman is getting older does not mean she has to wear a “safe” white blouse and black slacks. The “best part” of being a woman isn’t over just because she’s getting older. She can wear anything she wants no matter how old she is.
Later that day, as I stood there and told my husband the play-by-play of my adventures at the makeup store, I noticed concern in his eyes. At first I thought it was because he saw that I had spent $300.00 on said makeup, so I tried to quietly hide the receipt by quickly flashing my boobs at him.
But then he spoke. “Honey,” he said softly. “You do know that you are not 42, right? You turned 43 in January.”
I was shocked. I really, truly didn’t remember that.
But as long as I don’t know it, maybe no one else will either.
Just like no one will know that Kate Middleton hated that stupid yellow dress so much that she set it on fire the next day.