Being Cute Will Get You Hurt

I'm only going to tell you this because I'm trying to learn to laugh at myself as much as I laugh at other people. (My suga-niece, Cherie will understand this because I tease her ALL THE TIME.)

First, let me explain that it's a really nice day out (nice for Anchorage in early April). The sun is just BLASTING rays, the streets are not too horrible, and you can get away wearing just a light coat, no ugly boots, hats, gloves... Nice. We can almost feel summer headed our way (well, I say "summer," but I'm talking about those three or four good weeks of above 50-degree days that we Alaskans like to brag about).

So, it's nice out. I have to run a couple of errands, but that's okay on a day like this. I feel good, really good (sunshine does that to me). I feel so good, I've got some music going and I'm cha-cha-ing around the bathroom while I do my hair and such. I'm in such a good mood, I decide to add a little extra to my grooming routine. I decide to wear some mascara.

Wait, wait - I know you're thinking that wearing mascara is not anything "extra," not a big deal. Maybe not for most folks, but it is for me. I hardly ever wear makeup. Okay, I did go through a stage in my 20's when I did the whole Fashion Fair, Avon and drug-store counter thing - buying foundations and lipsticks and eyeliners and mascara. Eyeliner was my favorite, even tho I could never apply it quite right... Anyway, I never really needed makeup. I never had teenager acne or any of the usual problems young women have with their skin. I'm dark and lovely, thank you. I only have makeup because I buy it every time we do photos at birthday parties or something. Like I said, I have a dark complexion and without inside lighting set up by a professional, I usually photograph badly and that's if I can be seen in the damn picture at all.

SO... back to me and this mascara. I have a tube of something dark brown by, I don't know - Covergirl or Max Factor or somebody. And I'm bopping around to Levert's "Cassonova," feeling all summer-happy and putting on this cheap ass mascara. Well, I guess I bopped off beat or something cause I damn near put out my right eye.

Do you know that mascara burns when it gets on your eyeball? And it leaves little floaty flecks on your eyeball? Even with tears streaming (that's from the burning), those flecks take forever to wash out.

I'm like, dang.... Let me leave this mascara wearing to the pros. The next time I want "lush" lashes, I'm going to use some falsies.

That was Cute Mishap #1.

Mishap #2 came while I was driving down the street.

Bopping once again - because there's nothing like sunshine and good music to make you want to bop your head (well, there nothing like liquor, a cute outfit and a club atmosphere, but I'm talking about broad daylight and in a car)...

I'm listening to something by somebody who's probably 30 years younger than me, but it's okay because it's got a beat going. I'm pooching up my lips and rocking my head (you ladies know how we do when we're being all cute) and smiling back at the drivers who are smiling at me. I'm bopping away and damn near slammed into a police car.

Now, I have NO idea why Mr. Policeman has come to a stop in the middle of MOVING traffic when there is NO red-light, accident or other roadway obstruction. No idea at all. All I know is that I'm driving and grooving and I turn my head for one-millionth off a second to check my side mirror and when I turn back around... Boom. There's a big old APD car sitting still.

I hit brakes so hard I think I pulled a groin muscle.

The good news is, Mr. Policeman didn't a) seem to notice that I'd almost bought a city cop car, and b) nobody was looking right at me when I went from mid-bop to approaching heart attack.

Tell you what: that stopped my little groove right there. The cop (I still don't know what the hell he was doing) drove off out of my way and I went into full driving-as-a-responsible-adult mode. I did the rest of my errands driving like I was giving a course in how to look old and respectable. There was NO more dancing, bopping or grooving left in me. I didn't even want to listen to music anymore. I put on the radio and listened to some guy who sounds like he's Rush Limbaugh's crankier, older and meaner brother.

So, yeah, I'm going to save being cute for later (like when I have my own makeup artist) and never in the car unless somebody else is driving. Being cute will kill you - or at least put out an eye or get you a ticket and raised insurance rates.

Peace
--Free