DYING AND DYEING Part 2

Easin' into literary mode slowly, so this is pretty much drivel...

DYING AND DYING…Part 2

 

*I think that the second “DYING” is supposed to be “DYEING” as I am referring to the gray roots that are the bane of aging brunettes everywhere.  Please forgive my grammatical transgressions as I return to the halls of literary distinction that is the hallmark of the Café members.*

 

With the exception of my jury days when I wore full on Vogue-level makeup and every day was a good hair day, I generally just bathe/shower daily, brush my teeth, run a brush through my hair and make sure my underwears are presentable for EMT’s, law enforcement or whoever responds to the crime scene.  The first two days, I started on hair and makeup around 6:30 am to be in court at 9 am.  I HAD FORGOTTEN HOW TO “GIRL”!

Yes, this is a valid and legitimate condition that has plagued me off and on throughout my misspent youth, into my adulthood and has now progressed to CRITICAL status.  The only reason I’m not just a complete write-off is because I do my nails.  Mostly these days, I look like Hattie-when-Dick-died, and have to fight the overwhelming urge to show someone (by “someone” I mean old acquaintances I run into when running errands for my mother!)  my good underwears to prove I’m not ill or homeless.

I have never been a prissy-sissy girl, but I at least wore makeup every day and my hair was salon cut every three to four months.  Nails were done by professionals and I could legitimately claim Shoe-W***e status.  While I’ve accepted (okay, acknowledged!) my aging process, I still harbor some completely unwarranted vanity waaaaaaay down in this thumpin’ gizzard that resides where the heart is supposed to be.

 

I have been betrayed, used and even physically abused and I didn’t cry.  I have stoically faced down life’s unfair obstacles and never, NEVER once flinched.  In a sick parody of the Jekyll and Hyde theme, I have sobbed, snottin’ up fresh makeup and stamped my feet like a Maori pumpin’ up for battle over a broken nail.  In a perverse and twisted form of OCD, I have ten fingernails--ten fingernails that must be the same length or I cannot speak in complete sentences and have a tendency to hide in my car until I can leave.  If someone really hated me and wanted to torture me, they would clip each and every one of my nails a DIFFERENT LENGTH, Dear God! I almost couldn’t type it. *heaving-bosom-and-dramatic-gasping*

I still have no qualms about putting my hands in whatever muck is presented to me for processing, getting my hands soil-dirty when forced into manual labor due to the absence of someone else to do that s**t; however, when I return home, it is understood that one of my commandments and unbreakable rules is that I am allowed the time to soak, cleanse, scrub, to include possible complete re-polishing of said Ten Fingernails, uninterrupted by petty emergencies and crises of others.

Friends, I am at a crossroads and as I believe that sanctioned group or talk therapy is one of Satan’s devices to get in some tormentin’ before some of us actually arrive at his guest facilities, I am asking for your help:  

I have begun to practice fainting/unconsciousness wherein my perfectly manicured fingernails are displayed to their best advantage, thus, hopefully cancelling out all my other sad and complete failures at “girling”.  *sob*  I know, I know…I need help.  And I turning to you, my good and faithful readers.  Any suggestions, recommendations (preferably for cheap resorts) and advice is sorta welcomed and I’m begging all of you for support and understandin’.

I’ll close now, I think I might have chipped the nude polish on my left pinkie and this must be attended to without delay.

This is Miz Carol, in Biloxi, Mississippi, signing off and waitin’ with bated breath (okay, jus’ ordinary breathin’--I gotta save my strength, after all).

 

Reviews

[barleygirl]

While I love reading you, I'm so glad you're back, you are barking up the wrong tree by asking for grooming advice from me. I haven't owned underwear or bra in decades. I have fibromyalgia & can't stand the feel of elastic against my skin (painful). I love that you still cling to your vanity in little scraps, but for me, I find getting old & decrepit to be freeing. Screw all these "girl" expectations anyway! Thank you for helping me get fired up. I'm sick of writing mealy-mouth crap all the time! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie