(And just like that,)

And just like that,

I have a new 

skin tag.

Paint Blobs and Age Spots

As I have continued to age,

my skin

has increasingly become

a sort of palette

that life

is using

to manifest

all manner

of odd growth,

like a surface 

on which a painter

squeezes blobs of pigment

and paint.

Apparently, Americans Like Their Men to Look Like Grown Adults and Their Women to Look Like Teenage Girls

Why is it that,

when a male is young and thin,

in hindsight, we say, "Ha!  Ha!  He looked like a kid!" --

while, at present,

after years of filling out,

he "finally looks like a man,"

while, at the same time,

when a female is young and thin,

in hindsight, we say, "She looked fantastic!" --

while, at present,

after years of filling out,

she "has really let herself go"?

Two Faced

A man doesn't obsess

over his face.

It is what it is.

He doesn't even give it

a second thought.

He was born with that face,

was raised with that face,

and grew up with that face.

He went through grade school,

middle school, high school,

and college with that face.

He dated with that face,

started a career with that face,

and formed a family with that face.

Everyone who's ever met him

knows him by that face.

He never reached an age when he was

asked, encouraged, or expected to begin

covering up

his natural, "God-given" face with

moisturizer,

concealer,

base,

powder,

blush,

eyeliner,

mascara,

eyebrow pencil,

three shades of eye shadow,

lip liner,

lipstick,

and lip gloss

every

single

day.

He never hides his true face.

He doesn't spend hours each week

covering his face early in the morning

and uncovering it late at night.

He doesn't spend years

distrusting his real face,

building a life, a career,

a family, a self,

based on a lie, a fake, a coverup.

He doesn't spend a moment

wondering if his actual face

is acceptable

without a full-fledged makeover.

He didn't learn how to

abandon his true face,

distrust his bare, naked face,

disconnect from his real self,

or disassociate from his true face

in order to create a completely

different visage

to present to the world.

He trusts his face

and relies on his face

without even knowing it

or thinking about it.

He just moves through the world

as his self,

with his true, natural, real, actual face,

without fear or worry.

He does this without even a thought.

Meanwhile, a woman

is expected to do the exact opposite --

to model to the entire world

that her true, natural, real, actual,

"God-given" face is unacceptable

and should only be

seen in public

when it is 100% altered --

to become

quite literally

two faced.

(Even beautiful)

Even beautiful
people look ugly when they
are seized with a sneeze.

UPDATED: Confessions of a Cover(ed) Girl

Thanks to my peach fuzz,
albino eyelashes and eyebrows,
and pale, blotchy skin,
when I don't
wear makeup,
I look like
a baby opossum --
white and pink
with small, beady eyes
and soft, fuzzy skin.

(I know how to be)

I know how to be
what everyone else thinks I should be.
Now I must learn how to be me.

Confessions of a Cover(ed) Girl

When I don't
wear makeup,
I look like
a baby opossum --
white and pink
with small, beady eyes
and soft, fuzzy skin.

NOTE: See the updated version of this poem here.

Making Up My Mind

When I don't wear makeup,
I feel like I'm disappointing
my family, community and society
because I look "prettier"
with makeup.
I feel like I'm not
"living up to my full potential"
or representing my family,
my community
or matriarchy "well."

But I do not exist
to achieve people's approval.
I exist because
I have a life to live --
one life, one shot,
mine.

I do not owe the world
"beauty."
I do not owe society
"pretty."
I do not exist to make
everyone else feel comfortable,
contented, or complimented.

Still, giving myself permission to
not look "my best" is
challenging for a perfectionist.

News flash to self:
I do not owe the world
"perfect."

Perhaps somehow, somewhere
in the recesses of my psyche,
I believe that I am more
valuable, more lovable, more
acceptable
if I am as "pretty"
or as "perfect"
as I can be.

Perhaps I have been
poisoned by the patriarchal preconception
(and the people who have practiced and propagated it)
that women are worthy of
acceptance, admiration, appreciation, approval, and affection
only when they are "pleasing" to the eye.

Mornings Are Such a Drag

By the time I arrive at the office,
I am exhausted.
I have already been awake for several hours,
the bulk of which I have spent beautifying myself:
showering, shampooing, shaving, conditioning,
applying styling foam to my hair while it's wet,
and then tending to my face --
moisturizer, base, blush,
tweezers, brow brush,
mascara, three shades of eyeshadow,
eyeliner, brow pencil, lip moisturizer
and, finally, three shades of lipstick.
Then for the home stretch:
blow-drying my hair upside down,
blow-drying my hair straight (right side up),
followed by styling with smoothing fluid,
and sealing the deal with hairspray.

It's like an art or science fair project
that you do every morning
before you can get to your
actual day.
I feel like a drag queen,
each day applying makeup
and hair and jewelry
in an effort to appear as an alternate version of myself --
a more refined and beautiful version of myself.
Although, unlike a drag queen,
all of this work makes me tired and irritated,
not excited and exhilarated.

Presenting

I can present myself
the way society
deems most "appropriate":
pretty, cute, feminine,
"standard," primped and polished,
made up with moisturizer,
mascara and mousse,
tightly bound
in claustrophobic couture,
slanted and perched atop
high heels
by way of the most
uncomfortable toe tyrants,
in getups that make
me feel confident
and comfortable
only in the moments
when I measure myself
against the female
"standard" of beauty --
the template
that is not necessarily
prescribed in writing
but is nonetheless
plastered all over
every imaginable media vehicle.

I know how to
play the game.
I know how to pass.
I know how to succeed
in that world.

I can play the part,
but I'm tired --
tired of pleasing
everyone but me
and satisfying everybody
else's needs

but my own.

Don't get me wrong.
I understand the value
and importance of
conveying a professional
image at work
and "putting your
best foot forward"
in social settings.

I realize that every
woman is different
and that some women
may even enjoy
priming and preening
and prancing.
My question is: do
we actually enjoy
the work
of primping
(or pimping, as it were),
or is it only the
acceptance, admiration,
adoration, affection,
affirmation, approval,
or attention resulting from our efforts
that we truly enjoy?

I am not suggesting

that we all stop

bathing and

fill our wardrobes

with rags and tatters.

I simply wish that

we -- that I -- would
release ourselves
from the prison of
patriarchally prescribed
"passability," when it
comes to female beauty.

I'm tired of
asking for permission --
from myself and
from my society --
to be human --
to be a real-life
person, rather than
a prototype or
protege or protagonist
in a man-made story.

Setting the Record Straight, Practically Speaking

Straight women who dress
comfortably and practically
don't dress
comfortably and practically
because they have
"let themselves go"
or because they have
"given up on men."
Straight women who dress
comfortably and practically
dress comfortably and practically
because they want to be
comfortable and practical.

Gay women who dress
comfortably and practically
don't dress
comfortably and practically
because they
"don't want to be women"
or because they
"want to be men."
Gay women who dress
comfortably and practically
dress comfortably and practically
because they want to be
comfortable and practical.

The Definition of Insanity Turned on Its Head

If we were all born
with different genetics --
different hair
textures, hues and thicknesses,
different eye
colors, shapes and sizes,
different nose,
breast and chest guises,
different skin tones,
and cheek bones
and ear lobes,
different lips and hips and dips,
different metabolisms,
heights and body types --
why do we,
in all our glorious variety,
seek to shed our delicious diversity
in order to adhere to
one "standard" of beauty or identity?