But also, location tracker [pin emoji]
Go get an iced coffee on me. I cash apped you so you’ll actually splurge on a giant one, and do a run around the store. Buy something for each of my nephews and my favorite niece for me.
She’s your only niece
And she’s my favorite
You didn’t have to send me money but too late to take it back now. Bestie therapy session is over, and retail therapy hour has begun.
Love you babe
Love you boo boo XO
A few hundred dollars later, and I do somehow, magically, feel marginally better. Now it’s onto the next errand. Gas, then my weekly fresh green veggie juice (I can’t be bothered to eat enough veggies in my diet, I’ll pick tacos over salad any day of the week, so I’ve convinced myself that this sacrilege on my taste buds is deserved once in a while) from my favorite juicing shop, Veg Out, over to the post office to drop off a birthday card to Chance’s mom, and if I’m lucky, I’ll still have time to post some pictures from yesterday’s client look on Insta and work on some marketing for my business.
Lately, I can’t shake this feeling that I could be working smarter instead of harder, and I want to put some more thought into how I’m marketing and branding myself. I get plenty of inquiries through DMs on Instagram or through the front desk at the spa, The Pamper Palace, but I feel like I’m not capitalizing on all my potential there. Like it takes so much effort for so little payoff. It’s not like the couple hundred bucks I bring home each week is making or breaking our financial stability—Chance’s income more than supports us—but I love doing makeup, and I wouldn’t feel like myself if I didn’t get to keep my little business going.
My 90’s chick music playlist wails away, the soundtrack to my near-mental breakdown while I drive as I lose myself singing way too loudly at the gritty tracks from some of my fave bad bitches. These 90’s songs just hit different sometimes.
The decision to put a pin in all the noise in my head and lose myself in the noise from my speakers is a welcome one. All that shit with my husband and career can be figured out some other time.
Right now? I’ve got a duet with Alanis that’s demanding all of my attention.Shemost definitely gets what pieces of shit men can be, and she sure as shit isn’t telling me to talk it out with mine.
FIVE
CHRISSY
Why am I making myself suffer through this shitty lunch?A lite English muffin with tuna salad and hot sauce, and a side of celery for some extra joy. Somehow they’ve taken out only thirty percent of the calories, but two-hundred percent of the enjoyment of the English muffin. It’s actually impressive, mathematically. It tastes like fucking cardboard.
I’ve been trying to do shakes for breakfast and healthy lunches in between errands, chores, and clients, ever since I went back to work once Lea started going to daycare, but this baby weight just won’t budge.
I know there’s no use trying to stick to healthy dinners when four nights a week it’s chicken nuggets or mac’n’cheese—I always end up snacking on what I make for the rest of the family, it’s inevitable and I’ve stopped trying to avoid it. But I’m trying to see if I can’t drop five or ten pounds, maybe get rid of some of this pooch on my lower belly. Not that I’ll ever get back to my pre-baby weight of 107 pounds (I know, I know. I don’t need to hear it from you too; I heard it plenty back then, fuck me, blah blah blah. I get it, I was lucky to be such a teeny thing.), but if I could get even a little closer to it, I thought I’d be happy with that. I thought Chance would be, too.
Now I’m pretty sure he is only interested in my smallest self, if that picture on his phone is anything to go off of. There’s no way that’s happening. I was on a diet of primarily vodka and a steady exercise routine of primarily riding random dick in those days, before I became a family woman. It’s safe to say my lifestyle has changed a little bit in the last thirteen years.
But that vengeful voice in my head takes over again. If he’s not going to appreciate my body anyway, why am I trying to kill myself by eating this garbage lunch every day?Fuck. Him.My stream of consciousness is as bitter as this disgusting bullshit tuna, and my mind is made up in an instant.
For a split second, guilt consumes me. Like me giving up on my appearance is shutting the door on any hope for our spark returning. But then I remember that I’vebeentrying. Been working out when I can fit a class in, been eating healthier, and, like the millennial classic movie warned us about, he’s just not that into me. He sure hasn’t been appreciating me. So fuck all this extra suffering I’ve been going through for his viewing pleasure. He’s viewing someone else for pleasure now, anyway.
I decide to grab a fast-food chicken sandwich on the way to The Pamper Palace for my afternoon appointment with a client who wants “natural glam” (oxymoron much?) for her date night. She told me when booking that she thinks her boyfriend of three years is proposing to her tonight. I wonder if I should warn her about what awaits her on the other side of marriage, or let her keep her optimism.
* * *
I setup my station that I rent from Roxanne (the owner of the bougie salon and day spa I have used as a home base for my clients for years now, and someone who’s become a close friend in that time), in anticipation of this afternoon’s client and her impending proposal. I fluff out my brushes after they’ve been drying since their last use and subsequent cleaning, and get out the products I anticipate needing to slay this look for her.
Being a makeup artist is something I fell into kind of naturally, as I was always doing my own makeup (and Ellie’s whenever she’d let me) growing up, and I just started taking on work from more and more friends until it turned into referrals. From that, my own little business blossomed, and I was able to stop taking the college courses I didn’t give two shits about to go to cosmetology school and eventually do this somewhat full time. I can’t imagine I’ll ever be rich from it; in our industry the real money only goes to the celeb makeup artists who end up getting their own makeup lines and shit. And YouTubers, but that’s another beast entirely.
I mean, would it be amazing to see my work on aVoguecover, or immortalized on the red carpet at the Met Gala? Of course. But honestly, I love making everyday women feel their most beautiful. Especially when it’s for weddings, and special events like prom. Not only will they be able to look back on those pictures forever, but my own personal philosophy is that when we look good, we feel better about ourselves, and then we tend to act more like the best versions of ourselves. And if I can help women be their best selves on their special days…that makes me happy. Female empowerment and all that shit.
I guess it might be like the chance for an artist to have a painting in a museum versus teaching art in a school. Personally, I like the grassroots approach over the glitzy attention. But hey, if I get a DM for a client for an award show by some miracle from the Instagram algorithm gods, I. Am. There.
I quickly check over my reflection in the mirror at my station and congratulate myself on still looking like a half-alive human being despite the cavernous wound inside my chest. My own makeup is flawless (as per usual), with expertly blended eyeshadow that never fails to get at least a few comments or questions about how such a blend is even possible every time I leave the house with it on, and it reminds me there’s something in life I’m great at, even if I’m failing in the desirable wife department.
The colors on my face today are mostly medium and deep pinks with accents of rose gold, including a healthy splash of rose gold-hued highlighter on my full, round cheeks, accenting my most prominent feature. The tones play off of the deep red tint in my espresso hair, and complement my you-can-tell-that’s-not-from-a-lotion-and-a-mitt skin tone nicely. My jawline looks sharper than usual with the tiny bit of contour I added underneath it. (I have a personal vendetta against people abusing contour, but itdoeshave its place). Overall, my face is looking pretty close to normal for me.
My hair is back to my usual, messy beach waves that flow to just below my modest breasts. I’m not blessed with DDs like my bestie is (not that she sees it as a blessing, I swear she keeps those things wrapped up tighter than the President’s nuke codes—if I had a rack like that, you couldn’t pay me to wear a shirt half the time), but I’ve always had enough going on up top to make it count. Sadly, after four pregnancies and breastfeeding three of those babies, my girls are NOT what they used to be. Luckily, there are some pretty decent push-up bras on the market, and Chance doesn’t mind if I spend a little too much on lingerie from time to time. Honestly, I’m not even sure he’s noticed the deflation that’s come with the years. He seems to still love the girls, even if I’ve been forced to realize that other parts of me don’t seem to interest him as much anymore, but I sure notice the effects of gravity. So, the impressive contraptions are a staple in my wardrobe, and today one of them is doing its job. My cleavage is looking impressive, if I do say so myself. It’s peeking through a deep cherry wrap-around top, paired with loose, black, mid-length faux leather shorts and a pair of platform flip flops (I don’t care if 2004 called and wants its shoes back, you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, dead, toes) to give me a few much-needed inches on my five foot, two-and-three-quarters frame.
If I didn’t know better, I’d hardly be able to tell I was in the midst of an existential crisis from howtogethermy shit is looking right now, at least in a two-dimensional reflection with great lighting.
