Chirky

I don't really know that much about makeup. In fact, I know horrifically little. I rarely wear foundation and I wouldn't know how to apply concealer if Ru Paul had a mirror in hand, straddled me on the cold, hard bathroom tile and forced me to take blending lessons. I can't apply eyeliner without smearing it in all the wrong places (one time I even discovered it on my forehead half an hour later) and I just don't understand lip liner.

My makeup routine is made of three simple components: blush, mascara, lip gloss. Sometimes, when I'm feeling fancy, I'll even dab my finger into a little pot of shimmery cream-colored eye shadow-like-stuff that I got at Sephora and I'll rub a little on my eyelids. And on very, very special occasions, I'll wear my coveted foundation. I try not to do it often because, well, for one thing it's expensive. It also makes my makeup take a lot longer because of all the smearing and rubbing that has to occur. I generally only wear it when I'm trying to impress someone with a dewey, youthful complexion and perfectly even skin tone. Like when I know I'll be in front of the camera. Or when I go on an interview.

I'm sure you're much more adept with powders and goopy creams than I am, so maybe this wouldn't be a big deal for you. But for me, it's a recipe for catastrophe.

As you probably suspect by now, I had an interview recently (no cameras involved) (to my knowledge) (though I did have to hike up a little grassy hill wearing heels and I don't know why it hasn't occurred to them to put a sidewalk up the embankment between the parking lot and road). I also tried to wear foundation.

Bear with me for a minute here, because I have to explain my process to you. It's sort of in this little pump bottle, right? So I squeeze one pump's worth onto my finger, and then dab it between my fingers until I have an even amount on each of my index fingers because I'm king of anal about symmetry. And then I put little dabs all over my face so that I won't cover only my cheeks with it and not have any left for my forehead or chin. So anyway, I dabbed some on my cheek, and it kind of gooped and dribbled down my face. I panicked, looked down to be sure that none had landed on my blouse, and then went about smoothing it all over my face.

It's important to note here that any landing on my blouse would be a disaster for one reason alone: it was the only shirt that I could wear. You see, this running class that I've been taking has made me break out in hives, or get a heat rash, or maybe both, all over my chest. I don't know what is happening, but everyday I find tiny new red spots that have developed overnight and it's ruining my wardrobe, I'll tell you that. I only have so many boatneck shirts to my name and wearing a v-neck or scooped line or square-cut blouse would only highlight the blemishes, not hide them. And I definitely wanted to hide them.

I finished with my makeup and did a double-take in the mirror. Right there, right on the most prominent area of my chest, was a nickel-sized dollop of foundation. As I jerked my body to swing my jewelry out of the way, I watched in horror as a streak of foundation trailed behind my necklace and transferred onto my shirt. The only shirt that I could wear.

I frantically grabbed a washcloth, ran it under the faucet, and started furiously rubbing my shirt. I rubbed. And I rubbed. And I rubbed. I got almost all of it out, but by the time I was through my shirt had a gigantic mono-boob water stain across the front. I snatched my hairdryer, thinking that I could dry it quickly and dash out the door, since I was running late. And not to throw any heat at my hairdryer or anything, but that sucker gets hot. Hot enough to bend the fibers in my shirt, in fact, making one little area look kind of wonky and discolored. Hot enough to burn a hole in my shirt. A hole that I ignored. A hole that I simply covered up with my (cleaned) necklace.

I stepped in front of the full-length mirror to give myself a once-over before rushing out the door (I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!), and what did I see? A smudge of deodorant stretching across my blazer.

I'm not positive, but I think the Law of Luck requires that I get the job offer simply because Murphy's Law massacred my wardrobe.