Sex and Love 100

Musings on the most basic life skill . . .

Friday, August 31, 2012

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder- Especially When You're in Front of the Mirror

Beauty matters. It took mother to remind me of this—she’s 87.  Seems like all the years trying to get her to look at the computer were in vain—it  was her vanity that took her to the mouse in search of a lipstick she had to have—hers was on its last lick.   She sat all afternoon savoring, in my construction-zone of a house while my husband hammered away above us.  She never noticed--him in his short shorts or the pounding.  Mesmerized by pages of beauty tips and news she finally broke the spell and spoke. 

“Beauty matters,” said. 

All of a sudden I wondered if she thought I’d forgotten; in 90 +  degree weather, putting a new roof on ourWoodstock house, I nixed the make-up and hair for a week—my bare ass hadn’t seen the shower either.  “Mom, of course I know it matters.”  She sensed my concern.

“No, I don’t mean you, I mean you psychologists—you know, they think it all comes from inside.  You can’t forget that no one likes the gift that comes in a brown paper bag.” She laughed and added, “We all need a little gift wrap.”

How right she is.  Beauty is not a nasty word; it influences what other’s think of us and what we think of us.  I’m not talking about ravishing beauty, I’m not talking about obsessive beauty—everyone is beautiful; we need to take pleasure in enhancing our appearance  A refined face belies a refined person.  Sure we judge books by their covers; are you supposed to read the damn thing standing at the bookshelf?  Taking care of our outer self is very crucial—one of the first signs of depression is a lack of regard for one’s beauty.  Have you ever left the hair dressers feeling on top of the world?  Sure you have.  My grandmother would practically hop and skip on the sidewalk after—and she left with a purple head.  Did you know the hottest selling female product in recessions is lipsticks and beauty products—why? Oh, how great we feel with a new face.  
There I sat, on wood floors heaved from the rain that in puddles while I was dining in Italy, staring up at  a hole in my roof that now revealed the big dipper, while watching the dollar bills being transformed into plywood, shingles and sheet rock.  I went into the bathroom to see what I could scrap off of my cruddy mosquito bitten body and see what I could scrape up—in the make-up department.  I spied it on the sink.  Mom had left her prized lipstick, nearly dead, but just enough so I could feel like kissing my misery away, with my construction foreman, who wanted to fiddle, but not on the roof.  Thanks mom.  

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