Throwback Thursday Isn’t Just For Instagram

This morning I woke up the same way as usual.

My alarm clock jumped to life and stole me away from my dreams at 5:30 AM.   It sucked.  I rolled over and hit snooze. And then I repeated this action at least another four times.

                When I finally decided I was prepared to awake I reluctantly stretched one arm out of my fortress of blankets to turn on my radio. I listened to the over-played pop song that was booming through my speakers while I stretched my body out and moved my limbs frantically in an attempt to jolt them to life.  I looked like a pig in mud as I clumsily rolled around in my tiny single bed fighting with the blankets- they were obviously trying to prevent me from leaving their loving arms.  I resisted attack. It took a minute, but I maneuvered my body out of the clutches of my loving sheets, leaving my palace.

                After nearly flopping onto my floor, I somehow managed to stumble to my feet. Then my body was running on auto- pilot.  My body always knows what to do from this point.  Walk two meters to the bathroom.  Strip down, and then shower.  Do what you do every day.  Wash my face, brush my teeth, and try to smile at my reflection. It’s the same thing every day- I should know what I’m doing by now.

                I always mosey my way back to my room, slide into my outfit for the day, tie my hair back and out of the way, and then flop down on my little white chair that sits in front of my make-up table.  I glare at my reflection wondering what I shall do with my make-up today.  Who will I make myself?  What feature will I thrust the most attention upon today?  I finally decide.

                As I felt the first brush stroke of a delicate bronze glide across my eye lid a distant scene popped into my mind.


                I’m in the fifth grade again, huddled beside my bus buddy Nathan.  I draw the make-up pallet out of my back-pack pocket and open it up.   Pulling open the pallet, I reveal a petite brush.  It’s made of cheap plastic.  The whole thing is cheap.  The brush is black with white foamy tips and it is the most thrilling object I’ve ever seen.  I look to Nathan and say, “I’m not allowed to wear make-up”.  He asks me why I’d want to anyways.  All the other girls were allowed to. They wore make-up when we had play dates and sleepovers and painted each other’s nails. I was always excluded.  I just wasn’t allowed to. I boiled over with envy!  I clutched the palette of blue and purple that I had received in a loop bag at a friend’s birthday party. Today I would wear make-up! 

                I dipped the pure white spongy tip in a deep purple hue. With shaking hands I swept the brush across my closed eyelid. I repeated this on the other eye. Then I added more. Then more to each eye, sweeping back and forth as if I was creating a masterpiece on my closed eyes. Before I knew it I could feel the maturity glowing on my face!

                I turn to Nathan and ask him, “How do I look?”  He responds in typical fifth grade boy fashion, “Uhhh… I don’t think you did it right.”  My face begins to redden. I didn’t do it right? I DIDN’T DO IT RIGHT?!  I’m hit with a buffet of thoughts, of all flavours. “How embarrassing!”, “What does HE know?”, “I probably look alright…?”, “How do I fix it?” “CAN I EVEN FIX IT?!”

                I lift my sweaty palms to my eyes and rub. I rub like a mad woman. I rub until my hands are so purple they could be mistaken for an eggplant.  I rub until both my hands and eye lids are sore.  Why did I want the make-up so badly?! What did I have to prove?


                My mind clicks back to reality.

    I’m in my room once again, make-up brush in hand like a wand.  My face still a blank slate.  I’m going to make magic happen, someday I will.


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