DIY

My husband took my son to his grandparent's in Connecticut for the weekend and with him, the car. My car, I suppose you could say, the one I mostly drive. We agreed he should take it because it's safer and I had no distant plans-- the station car would do just fine.

It wasn't until later, as I was putting on my coat, that I realized that my make-up bag was in the side door of my car, traveling up the Garden State Parkway, and I had social plans. What on earth was I to do? My self-image as a Separated Lady in My Forties is tenuous at best, and I was about to introduce myself to a whole new crowd of potential future friends. And I'm not even talking boyfriends, Godforbid, I'm just talkin' peeps to hang out with. How could I possibly show my face without that subtle tint of health and vibrancy playing off my cheeks? Was there a social statement to appearing wan that I wasn't aware of? Would they think I was a lesbian, and if so, did it matter much? And what of my eyelashes-- two of my best and only standout facial features along with my eyeballs. They would be nekkid for all the world to see. Or not see in this case. I was disappointed but I had options, or so I thought. I shifted into "panicked burglar" mode.

First I checked every possible pocket in my dazzling panoply of purses, backpacks, tote bags and travel pouches. How many? I'll tell you when you're older. Then it was back upstairs to the deepest recesses of the top right bathroom drawer for what held, for purposes of obsessive
compulsive archiving I suppose, a blush that I've had since high school. I opened the compact, sized up the pink and realized I couldn't do it. It's an otherworldly pink, circa 1984, which only Blondie would have worn on her cheeks or Adam Ant, perhaps, on his eyelids. I looked longingly at the lipsticks but then remembered that never, not once in grade school, had I successfully smeared my Mom's lipstick symmetrically onto both cheeks. I had been down that road before, thank you very much, and had rubbed off enough lipstick and creme blush in my day to sink a ship.

I had been wearing the two missing blushes-- no, I couldn't find the spare either-- for eight years. I was introduced to the color just before my wedding day. A real life make-up professional in a fancy department store had deemed it My Color and so, not one to eschew an expert opinion, I've worn it ever since. It was more of a dusty tawny rose, the color of terribly faded cherry oak, than bubble gum pink and I'd grown to accept it as part of my organic composition. I didn't even know the name of it-- not that there was any time to zip off to the mall-- but still, I should at least know its name. I realized now that I took it for granted. It's a huge part of my life although I hadn't thought of it as such until that moment, and now I also felt ashamed. My blush was gone and with it, the lion's share of my attractiveness and my precious appearance of youth.

OK, perhaps you're wondering why anyone would keep her make-up bag in her car. My car is my portal to the outside world. It's the conduit of choice for most of my face-to-face human interactions. If I'm going to see a neighbor, I stop off for a quick visit to the driveway, where I sit in my car, one leg out and one leg in, putting on a quick swipe of mascara and blush, before closing the car door and heading merrily down the street. When I lived in L.A., I also kept a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash and deodorant in my car, it was such a huge part of my life. But that was nothing compared to most Los Angelinos, who keep a change of clothes, their entire cache of sports equipment and assorted birth control in their cars.

My inner McGuyver took over. What could I mix together to make blush. I could grind up a clay pot from the patio. That would only take 45 more minutes or so. The party might be over by then. I could prick my fingertips and smear the blood on my cheeks like they did in concentration camps to avoid the gas chamber. Too macabre. I headed for the kitchen. Flour? Yep, I had flour, and smushed raisins for color? Too paste-y. Ground cayenne pepper? Too orange. Nutmeg! The color was better, but that smell-- too pungent. Cinnamon could be nice. What harm could I do to smell like mulled cider? None! I rubbed some on my cheeks. It looked... it looked like I had cinnamon on my face. Like some crazed baker who had just finished baking an apple pie in a frenzy of creative verve, I looked too harried to wipe the cinnamon off my face before changing out of my frilly apron and kerchief. And mascara? I lost the will to hatch a DIY mascara plan because time was ticking. I had the fleeting thought of using a sharpie to individually color the tips of each lash, but there again, I was stopped by the specter of potential blindness. "Permanent Blindness by Permanent Marker!" the Post headline would read. The pull quote would just say, "Duh."

I settled for lipstick on my lips. Too dark and too matte for what the hip ladies are wearing these days, but better than nothing. I thought of Cate Blanchet and her signature style of just deep lipstick and little else. I would channel Cate, pinch my cheeks and call it a day.

Of course, about a minute after I walked in the door of the party, I totally forgot about my lackluster lashes and my withering youth. I accepted an hors d'oeuvre and delicious homemade beer and immediately fell into an engaging conversation with perfectly nice people. They didn't comment on my advanced age or tell me that I must have been a real looker in my day. They didn't ask me if I was feeling all right or needed to sit down. And none of them, not one of them, asked me the proper name of my estranged blush of eight long years.

A good time was had by all.