Touche (imagine that word with the accent mark)

Okay, so a million things are happening in my brain right now. I have the perfect post for tonight, and I've known all afternoon what I wanted to title tonight's story, but then I logged in and saw that I've now reached over 10,000 views and I'm flipping OUT, and I'm also having to Google in another tab how to put the accent mark over the word touché. Which totally makes me a 'douche'. (<----- Keyboard totally autocorrected the touché for me, but all other words that have accent marks are apparently not good enough. How dare they!)

 

The title for this post is just one word: touché. However, in the section where I have to type the title, it won't autocorrect the accent mark, hence the title I had to use. Moving on. I'm over my snit.

 

This past Saturday, Mike and I were going out of town for dinner. Per usual, I started getting ready an hour and a half before we were supposed to leave. Needless to say, An hour and forty-five minutes after the time I started getting ready, I was walking out the door. Only to find Mike sitting in the car, with it ON, waiting for me.

 

He didn't say anything, but like everything in life, actions speak louder than words. I immediately knew at that moment what I would be writing about this week...

 

As a pre-teen, I can honestly say I had a less than stellar hygiene routine. I mean, I took showers people, but there were many a time when I would forget to put on deodorant, forgot to wash my face using the expensive stuff my Mama bought me for acne, etc. etc.

 

In college, there were plen-ty of times when I went to bed at God knows what hour, WITH a full-face of make-up on. Then woke up four hours later and went to class with the same face on from the day before, using Mentos to brush my teeth, and didn't. even. CARE.

 

So what on God's green earth has changed within me, at age 28, that it now takes an HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to achieve a mediocre, presentable Kristin?  Let me walk you through my process and maybe, I'll discover for myself why this abomination is occurring in my full-grown adult life.

 

SHOWER: I'd say this is the longest part of the operation. At a full 20 minutes, many things that happen behind the clothes take place. If it's a shaving day, I have to use my Ultra Sensitive Shaving cream, along with the winner of last summer's "Kristin's Search For the Perfect Razor By Purchasing Every Razor Ever Made" marathon. Because the hair on my legs grows in circles, (literal...CIRCLES) this is long and drawn out process. If I'm awake enough, I'll have been smart enough to shampoo and condition BEFORE this happens so I can leave the conditioner in while shaving. Then I use my fancy face soap. Then I use my fancy body wash. Then I rinse. Then I'm done. Not even gonna lie, back in the day, I could've been caught using shampoo to wash my hair, body, and as shaving cream lather in a pinch. 

 

POST-SHOWER, BEFORE HAIR: With a towel wrapped around my head I brush AND floss--EURday, because I don't like my teeth with fur. Now it's time for some jams. I grew up on country music so by the time I got my own car, I started expanding (widely!) my music collection. Basically, I can still bust out in song when I turn on a country station because they're still playing the same songs that came out when I was FIVE, but I've really grown past that music scene. I'm into all kinds of music, but lately, I've been ALLLLL about the tunes that were huge when I was a teenager. Soooo, probably anything from 1998-2004ish is on my hit list now. I was also born into the wrong generation--I should've been an 80s kid, because I know like, every single 80s song, ever. And I'm confident with my awkward white girl status enough to say that I am quite ghetto fabulous when it comes to knowing hip-hop.

 

While I'm putting on my face, I like to hear something up-beat and pumping, so I begin with a little Jay-Z "Dirt off Ya Shoulder". I start my in-closet search then head back to the vanity. I put on fancy cleanser and fancy moisturizer. Then fancy acne-curing concealer and SPF 45 primer. I'm all about the preventing skin cancer movement, even though I've been known to lay out on a beach for eight hours a day with NADA on my body. By this time, something Whitney has come on and I'm completely preoccupied. "So Emotional" is blasting, and I'm in the mirror like I'm auditioning for her music video back-up singer. I bust a move across the bedroom to my jewelry armoire to pick out matching accessories for the day. Rudy is hiding under the bed at this point because there's air kicking and air punching and head-swinging involved and there's also a pretty good chance that this is all happening sans pants.

 

MAKE-UP: By now I'm back to the vanity and I'm putting on eye liner if I'm in the mood. I have squinty Asian eyes so when I wear liner, I'm pretty much screamin' goth. Some days I just feel 'goth', so I go with it. I put on foundation, then powder, then blush, then eye shadow, then mascara. Nine times outta ten, I stab my eye with the mascara wand and I have to take five to stop the tears. Then I laugh at myself because all the stuff I just put on my face is now a sodden mess. And it looks funny, so I usually stop and take a pic to send to somebody via Snapchat. It takes ten more minutes to fix what all I just messed up.

 

HAIR: This is my favorite part. It's no secret that while God blessed me with faulty baby-making parts, a faulty gall-bladder, whacked jaws, and apparently circular growing hair patterns on my shins, he also blessed me with some fabulous hair. No matter the length, the color, or the style, I've always liked my hair, thus I spend some time loving on it to get it looking the way I like. Most days, I blow it straight, then flat iron which takes maybe 20 minutes. If I'm running WAY late, I use product and scrunch it up, Wavy Lays style.

 

DRESSING: This is the part where I put on what I picked out, stare at myself in the mirror and become disgusted, and take it all off. Which calls for a re-evaluation of the jewelry and eye make-up. The stereo usually flicks to something 90s-ish by now and En Vogue's "Neva Gonna Get It" inspires me to bust out a solo using hair brushes. At the "whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa" part, I usually hear Mike's exasperation from somewhere in the other room so I know I'm pushing the time limit. If my jeans don't require the lay-flat-on-the-bed-and-suck-in fresh out the dryer routine, I can usually be dressed and ready in 10. Sometimes my feet sweat in flats (okay I lied, they sweat all the time) so I put baby powder in my shoes. Not to block out the smell, but apparently to cause a dust to fly up all over my clothes when I slide my feet into them. That causes a minor set-back, so I have to sit and brush off the white that has attacked me...everywhere. I check myself in the mirror and if it's a really good Kristin day, my vain self will bust out the cell phone, cos before it, I have no idea how I looked, apparently.

 

It is a known fact to friends, family, and coworkers that if something should happen to me while in their presence, before 911 is called, #1, check to make sure I have on underwear (if not, I'll let you know where I've stashed a pair I can slip on real quick. And wipe that judge-y look off your face--certain leggings and white pants sometime require commando. Don't even act like you've never done it) Then, #2, get my phone and erase the 405 pictures of myself with 20 different face poses. I'm hugely into pop culture and I'm a victim of this fad. Deal with it. Accept it. You've heard intimate details about my uterus on multiple occasions. Knowing I'm a selfie queen shouldn't sway you away at this point in our relationship!

 

There you have it. What it takes to make...allll this *stands and gestures from head to toe* I guess growing up has made me hyperaware of myself and what I smell and look like to the world. I am certainly not the skinniest or most in shape person, but I know how to tweak it to make myself presentable and most importantly, happy with myself. All girls should be proud of what they have to work with and know how to work it to the best of their ability. Even if it means we girls are deserving of huffy sighs from our spouses who crank up the car and sit in it to make a statement EVERY time you have plans.

 

I just realized my routine took so long to explain that I left out my "touché" story. It takes too long to get ready in real life and it takes too long to explain the story of how I get ready. Perhaps this post was the cure for me shortening my process? Touché. (<---- BOOM!)