Oh, the places you will go.

For the sake of being a woman, I reasoned that applying a thick clay on my face – much the shade of what a jar of pureed blueberries, processed by an infant, would look like – would be a tribute to Hollywood and fashion moguls alike. And my dog is looking at me like I’m a complete ass. Worst of all, I don’t think this mask even works.

Every morning I reach for my 3-in-1 cleanser, followed by shine control lotion and a handful of other products that I’ve invested a clutch-full of pretty pennies in. Why? To feel beautiful*.

Whether any of the countless cosmetics I’ve happily handed my long-and-hard earned money over for actually work is beyond me. I learned in an early communications class that the key to advertising is understanding that “perception is reality.” Do I look prettier? Sure, depending on which glasses I wear – rose colored or jaded. And the answer is inevitably and reliably unreliable. 

It’s all in my mood, and the lighting of course. And perhaps if I spend more money on the fancy metropolitan brands, over the drugstore types, the total on my receipt will validate me. Maybe not.

At this point in my feminine experiment, I feel like I was smacked in the face with a snifter-full of Botox and I can’t quite smile. In return for my goofy, surely-sedated looking grin, I received yet another ridiculous look of disapproval, followed by a single tail wag of mockery for my efforts at trying to be beautiful.

As for you, Big Cosmetics, I’m on to you. Because I know at least my dog will still think I’m pretty.**

*Aye, that’s the key. To feel beautiful.

** No, that’s not pathetic at all. I don’t know why you’d think that.