The Circles Under My Eyes
Several weeks.
Countless Q-tips.
Three different brands of eye-makeup remover.
Ten minutes at a time in the bathroom mirror.
That’s how many resources and how much time has gone into my inability to grasp the fact that I am not going to be able to wash away the dark circles under my eyes. Circles I thought were merely smudges. Circles that inspired under-breath muttered curses about how crappy my makeup must be and vehement annoyance that it didn’t seem to matter that I spent money on “the good stuff.”
I seem to spend a lot of time looking in the mirror lately. Looking for myself? I don’t know. I have circles under my eyes. For months I’ve thought my Clinique mascara was a bunch of crap. Every night before bed I’ve been spending 10, maybe 20 minutes, in the bathroom, washing my face, meticulously applying one of the three eye-makeup removers with cotton balls and Q-tips, carefully removing any trace of the black pigment artificially applied to my lashes and skin. I’ll be damned if I wake up with makeup smudged under my eyes, I’d think to myself, diligently, nay, manically, cleansing.
Fresh-faced, I’d climb into bed, certain my face was free from all adulterants. The following morning, I’d roll out and stumble my way to the toilet, catching a glimpse of my still-sleepy self in the mirror. Still sleep…and smudged. Grey circles under my eyes.
God damn it.
Weeks. I’ve spent weeks oblivious to the fact that my “smudges” are not smudges at all, but the tell-tale circles under the eyes of a woman who does not get enough restful sleep, who is older now and not quite so resilient, who can’t even caffeinate her way through the day any more. My sleepless nights are riddled with the anxiety-induced rapid cycling of the days events, upcoming stressors, fears, short-comings, aches, pains and your general run-of-the mill insomnia. And no sooner do I finally drift off to some semblance of somnambulance then a child appears in sound or in person at my bedside. The infant tosses and turns and needs to be comforted. The big girl is sick and needs me to hold her hair while she throws up. The boy can’t sleep and wants to know what he can do to alleviate his problem.
I wish I knew, son. I wish I knew. We’d do it together.
My apologies, Clinique. Your mascara does not suck.
My apologies, Rimmel Gentle Eye Make-up Remover. Your product is certainly effective.
Clearly, I’ve been making my purchases at the wrong counter. My circles are not eyeliner remnants, but more remnants of lines that had creased my brow. Indeed, my relief is not going to be found at the cosmetic counter, but more likely at the pharmacy counter.
Countless Q-tips.
Three different brands of eye-makeup remover.
Ten minutes at a time in the bathroom mirror.
That’s how many resources and how much time has gone into my inability to grasp the fact that I am not going to be able to wash away the dark circles under my eyes. Circles I thought were merely smudges. Circles that inspired under-breath muttered curses about how crappy my makeup must be and vehement annoyance that it didn’t seem to matter that I spent money on “the good stuff.”
I seem to spend a lot of time looking in the mirror lately. Looking for myself? I don’t know. I have circles under my eyes. For months I’ve thought my Clinique mascara was a bunch of crap. Every night before bed I’ve been spending 10, maybe 20 minutes, in the bathroom, washing my face, meticulously applying one of the three eye-makeup removers with cotton balls and Q-tips, carefully removing any trace of the black pigment artificially applied to my lashes and skin. I’ll be damned if I wake up with makeup smudged under my eyes, I’d think to myself, diligently, nay, manically, cleansing.
Fresh-faced, I’d climb into bed, certain my face was free from all adulterants. The following morning, I’d roll out and stumble my way to the toilet, catching a glimpse of my still-sleepy self in the mirror. Still sleep…and smudged. Grey circles under my eyes.
God damn it.
Weeks. I’ve spent weeks oblivious to the fact that my “smudges” are not smudges at all, but the tell-tale circles under the eyes of a woman who does not get enough restful sleep, who is older now and not quite so resilient, who can’t even caffeinate her way through the day any more. My sleepless nights are riddled with the anxiety-induced rapid cycling of the days events, upcoming stressors, fears, short-comings, aches, pains and your general run-of-the mill insomnia. And no sooner do I finally drift off to some semblance of somnambulance then a child appears in sound or in person at my bedside. The infant tosses and turns and needs to be comforted. The big girl is sick and needs me to hold her hair while she throws up. The boy can’t sleep and wants to know what he can do to alleviate his problem.
I wish I knew, son. I wish I knew. We’d do it together.
My apologies, Clinique. Your mascara does not suck.
My apologies, Rimmel Gentle Eye Make-up Remover. Your product is certainly effective.
Clearly, I’ve been making my purchases at the wrong counter. My circles are not eyeliner remnants, but more remnants of lines that had creased my brow. Indeed, my relief is not going to be found at the cosmetic counter, but more likely at the pharmacy counter.