Vanity

If you really look at it, the way we tease and colour and cover ourselves (or leave certain bits UNCOVERED) before we portray ourselves to others is amusing. It occurred to me the other night as I was getting ready for a night out. I mean, seriously - I own a million little bits and bobs whose sole purpose is to enhance my physical appearance. And those little babies have their work cut out for them, they really do. And WORK, unfortunately, is what it often is. A LOT of work.

First there is the whole hair removal deal. Seriously, who was it that decided that I shouldn't have a hairy upper lip, and underarms? And arms, and legs, and heaven knows what else...? Of course, I AM the conforming nincompoop who follows the path of looking 'feminine' that many others seem to have paved before me. But seriously, it would be interesting to know how this came about. I know, I know, 'Google is my friend'.

And as for my mane, my locks (which have a mind of their own) have been coloured, and been subdued under several heat treatments. I have a crazy mane of hair, and as I don't want to look like a witch doctor who couldn't quite carry off her rastas, I regularly have to straighten my hair using those hair straighteners that I am sure will eventually be the cause of a very bald, strangely shaped head. But here and now, for acceptance into so-called polite society I need this baby to make me blend in with the more normal folk. Of course, water is THE ENEMY NUMBER ONE for straightened hair, and there was one particular outdoor event where the heavens poured forth their tears of comic love, and I could not escape (plus I am a fan of rain, unlike my has-a-mind-of-its-own hair). I'm sure the children I saw from the corner of my eye running and screaming in absolute horror did not do so when my hair sprang forth and helped give shelter to several small animals and birds in the vicinity... I mean, I don't look THAT terrible au naturale, do I???

Then there is the absolute wonder, and potential for disaster, that is make up. I DO regard it with sincere adoration and joy. I would honestly look nowhere close to normal without the stuff. I'm no expert however - I don't know how to make my nose look slimmer, and to hide my three extra chins. But that day my friends, is looming on the horizon. I DO however know how to look awake: hurray for eyeliner, and eyeshadow and mascara! One of my good friends always asks me whether I have slept on the days when I don't bother with it. It cannot be emphasized enough, that looking awake for me is very important. Looking awake used to be at odds some time back however. This was when I was still prone to tears with remarkable, horrifying ease (or had more to cry about?), and before I discovered the waterproof stuff. In those times the choice was either looking asleep, or facially morphing into a raccoon at some point during the day. I have only just noticed that without all these enhancements I seem resemble other animals. All the ones that AREN'T human...

Other adjectives I like in association with my face (especially now that there are days when the word AGEING is scarily easy to relate to), are 'fresh' and 'healthy' - like fresh fruit. That's easily done with the miracle workers known as foundation, concealer and blusher. While they do come in handy on days when one looks starved and sleep-deprived, they need to be handled with care and caution. Abuse may result in one looking like, respectively, a drag-queen with higher than normal levels of testosterone, a ghost playing dress up, or an eighty year old puffing up his/her seventh flight of stairs, on the run from being caught at tweaking a nubile young man's bottom (forgive me, I just watched one of the new Kate Winslet movies). You see what I mean about the potential for disaster (except for those of us aiming for the raccoon/ drag queen/ ghostly/ puffy, lascivious and geriatric look - each of us IS unique, after all).

The final element in this area of enhancement is clothes. I have two gorgeous, and impeccably dressed flatmates, who until recently were quietly appalled by my sense of dressing. It's almost a science, I have learned, and lately, on occasion, I have been given the stamp of approval by one, or both of them. I'm still boggled by all the little rules there are to make this look bigger, that look smaller, and that on the whole make one look BETTER. But the other night I realised, as I was putting on what can only be deemed a 'contraption', that there is a little engineer waiting to be born in every woman. In order to wear the damn garment(which I have no logical explanation for having bought in the first place), and make sure it looked presentable and wouldn't get me arrested at some point in the evening (due to accidental indecent exposure) I used many, many tools. Some were predictable, but others, I think, were pure genius. One of the items was a REALLY complicated item designed by the good people at VS. To give one an idea of just how complicated it is, suffice to say that it comes with its own little manual. The other items included head pins, tape, staplers, string and a scrap of black material. I was THIS close to using permanent glue. The result of using all this paraphernalia, was a little engineering miracle that night, and I am happy to say I did not look homeless and I was not arrested.

It's scary how I make ALL this effort to look more like a... normal person. Especially when I don't believe there is such a thing as a normal person, and I am conversely SO proud of how different I am. In any case, I am more prone to disaster than success in all these ways I try to look better. So if you see a little old lady being chased by an outraged young man, or a drag queen tottering about in impossibly high heels, do spare me a wave...

Dating

I'm going to admit something here. I am on the wrong side of 20 - ok, ok the wrong side of 25 - and I do not know what dating is really about. I can't wrap my head around the concept of it. Is it like taking a car you've secretly been yearning for, on a test drive? Or is it like trying a brand new cellphone of a brand that you had never before heard of? Or is it like looking at something already quite familiar, under a totally different light? I wish there was a manual. In fact, in this crazy world I am sure someone, somewhere has already written some guidelines for the totally inept and clueless: 'Dating 101 for Absolute Morons'. Someone please pass it on to me, because I exaggerate not when I say: I have NO clue.

I have been on maybe three dates my entire life. Possibly even less. But let's just say three for now, as I am not too sure how to determine the datey-ness of a date. I mean unless it has not been specified that the 'meeting' in question is indeed a date (Gulp. The word makes me nervous.). Is it because it is just the two of you there? Is it the location, or is it the meal? I mean, is a breakfast meeting as likely to be a date as one in the evening, or is Italian food more romantic than a hot dog? Is it because clearly noone else has been invited (because I might possibly have changed several dates into non-dates by mistake that way)? Is it because one person asked the other, instead of it being some miraculous agreement to hang out? Someone please tell me!!! Or, last of all, is it a date because only one of you pays? I am not sure how I feel about the one person paying thing. As much as I like a good treat, I am more comfortable going Dutch. It's a hallmark of my independence, or whatever.

Ok assuming I have somehow established that it IS a date. What is one supposed to do? I was tempted on my very first FIRST date to go with a list of topics of discussion in case conversation waned to a point where it needed some sort of rescusitation. I needn't have worried. I was too tongue tied to say anything, and instead spent the afternoon following, with rapt fascination, the escapades of a really pretty insect. (I wish I knew what type it was, it was a REALLY pretty insect!) I'm guessing there should have been a little more conversation than was actually conducted. Are we supposed to discuss the weather (check), and then go into those first day at school type of introductions? My name is Goodmood. I have a brother and two sisters...? (check). There is just too much pressure! And I crumble, and I act, and I fake under pressure. I'm either a brighter, sparklier version of my true self, or as dull as doornails from lack of trying to engage the other person. So basically I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't!

The first date is nerve-wracking, it's true, but so is the concept of dealing with a second... I know I am not committing to a lifetime with this person, just by agreeing to another meal. But why does it FEEL like I am? No, I cannot meet you for dinner again because life as we know it will change forever?! I should try saying that in real life - it will send any prospective to the hills in a blink! And what if I am not interested after (and perhaps even BEFORE) the first date. Sure on paper, he (I like guys, just to clarify) is quite suitable using the general criteria. But what if there is no zing! after the first meeting. Is it like when you have to try a particular type of top again with jeans instead of the skirt you were wearing the time before to see the effect? Does one still go in for a trial run? Because this lack of zing! threatens (according to the rest of the world) to leave me single forever. Not that I mind, but since being single is unheard of at my age, I guess I am doomed. I have yet to find the very economical sounding coincidence of wants (i.e. mutual attraction) between myself and a 'suitable' individual. And as for trying them out for the zing! factor... I have mentally tried and tested them in my head before the first bite at dinner/lunch/breakfast/brunch/high tea/what have you, and failed them!

Like I said, I can't wrap my head around dating. I am a romantic of the purest (and clearly most delusional) kind. I know this. I do. I just don't believe in doing the work (as dating kind of appears to be). In my most optimistic of times (even now, when I am nearing expiry, and allegedly resigned to sitting on my pre-assigned dusty old shelf for the rest of eternity), I want that zing! to suddenly happen to me - be it with a stranger in the supermarket, with a cab driver through the rear view mirror (this might actually happen given my strange experiences with cabbies) or with someone I have known forever and not quite seen in that light before. I know. Delusional. But the only alternative to sitting around hoping (which is SO much fun to do), is... (my throat is getting dry, and my palms are already sweaty at the thought)... is... to date! Where IS that manual???

The Invasion

The first one came slowly and quietly. It made its way unobtrusively, when the moon was high. The mood was slumberous; peaceful. No irritation or discomfort was felt, and it settled in, beckoning the others who were all ready to follow.

She stirred in her sleep, smiling at a fleeting dream she would scarcely be able to remember in the morning.

The next few came with great caution, and in small clusters. Their stealth paid off, and soon there was a little army of them sparsely dotting the terrain. They had marked their new territory, and were at a strategic advantage for the next invasion. They settled in quietly, and waited in confident impudence for the rest.

The heat became oppressive. No longer fast asleep, she became restless. Suddenly thirsty, she awoke with a start. Switching on her nightlight, she poured herself a glass of water from the lifesaving pitcher on her bedside table. She took a long sip, and felt the cool water soothe her throat. She felt slightly refreshed but not entirely. Something didn't feel right. She frowned as she scratched at her forehead and cheeks. The humidity, or whatever it was, was irritating her skin. Too tired to really care, she turned off the light and tried to sleep.

By sunrise an entire army of them was there. Conspicuous, proud, and not at all easy to ignore. Their presence was obvious, and an eyesore. And worst of all, they were beginning to cause pain.

She woke up well before the alarm rang. Hot, sweaty and itchy, she went straight to the sink to wash her face. She glanced in the mirror, and shouted in horror - her face! HER face!

They celebrated their latest conquest. Each pimple beamed to the next in arrogant victory. Her face would never be the same again...