It was a very busy town day today, which is the clever way to do things when you live in a small village outside of town. I try to maximise our outrageous fuel costs by booking everything end to end on the one day of the week that I am free to do things of my own choosing i.e. avoiding housework. Today that included driving the kids to school, changing readers for the 2nd Graders, an Optometrist appointment, a sneaky pedicure squeezed in but don’t tell, picking the kids up for Orthodontist appointments, buying bulk bags of cat and enormous puppy food, my Chiropractic appointment to recover from lifting the huge bags of cat and enormous puppy food and purchasing meat for these carnivores I call children.
I’m not often in town for an entire day, and I try to keep the seeing of professional people down to an absolute minimum of perhaps once every 4 years. Except for my chiropractor. I couldn’t live without my chiropractor. Nevertheless, the proposition of being in close quarters with at least three professional people, as well as the chance I might bump in to someone from my best forgotten past (always when you least expect it), I decided to dress a bit better than I might if I was fixing a fence and -shockhorror- put some makeup on. And I did well. I looked nice as I walked out the door at 8.20am. I wasn’t all pancaked up – I had the slightest hint of foundation on, a little subtle blush, and mascara on my top lashes only. I even put nice thongs on, pre-empting my secret pedicure, instead of wearing my usual pink slappers. And I must have looked fetching I figured, because I detected glances all day. From the time I left the Optometrist at 10.20am to rushing into the Butchers at 4.55pm, I was on a roll. And I was gracious and confident with a smile here and raised eyebrow there.
Now however, it is 5.30pm and I’ve just come home and discovered that I have mascara in circles around my eyes. That’s right, circles. Around my eyes. My stomach, full of confidence, plummets.
“Kids!” I screech “How long have I had black around my eyes?”
“I dunno,” they all moan collectively, anaemic from their lack of meat in the last ten minutes.
My oldest child shrugs “Since you picked us up from school,” the other two nod in agreement.
“What is that stuff, anyway Mum? You look weird.” My grace and confidence has leaked away leaving the stones of anguish and stupidstupid stupidhead behind.
I’m thinking it looks like I have pressed my eyes against something like binoculars and my eyelashes have smeared their load of mascara around under pressure. Something like those dumb eyetest goggles, I reckon.
I’m never going in to town again.