Can somebody please explain how makeup works?

So I am on this rant about shoes. Specifically Keens. My favorite shoes. I loved these shoes. They were comfy and had this ridiculously round toe box and came in different color combinations. I really loved them. Now? Still comfy, but the things that made them different and interesting? Gone. The goofy round toe, the funky colors, gone. Just another expensive, boring walking shoe. So I sent them an email! All passionate and disappointed and misty-eyed. Bring Back Keens!! BRING BACK KEENS!! And don’t get me started about Subaru. If you see an old Subaru, you can tell what it is a mile away. I love the old Subaru!! I love the big grey stripe at the bottom of every one! Now, It looks like a Toyota. Volkswagen? Toyota. Mercedes? Jaguar? Toyota, Toyota. Rolls Royce? Big Toyota. What the hell?!??? What higher power decided that Same=Good? That’s right! I’m pissed off and spoiling for a fight. I’m standing up for what I believe! For all the voiceless people out there who want their shoes and their cars the way they used to be!!!! Seriously? If I can get all “ATTICA! ATTICA!” over shoes and cars, where is that fight when it comes to myself. I am not a Toyota, my friends. I am not sleek and slim and media-approved pretty. I am a plump little VW Bug with flower decals. Maybe a squat, square little orange Kia Soul. I am drawn to those odd little cars that are so different you can spot them a mile away. I LOVE THEM. Yep, go ahead. Say it. If I can love those squat, round, goofy looking, largely inanimate objects, why can’t I spare a little affection for squat, round, goofy looking, largely inanimate me? What is it about the “thing” that I can appreciate  the beauty in its differences, but not in myself? I know I’m not alone here. Shy, lonely, too big, too small, too short, too tall, too bookish, too outgoing, too this, too that, too different.  We dye our hair blue. We pierce things. We get a tattoo or 10; we wear our jeans down under our boxers. We wear two different shoes. We figure if we are purposely different enough, no one will see the shy. The scared. The different. The not enough. Let people laugh at our hair, our shoes, our clothes, our cars. Just please…don’t laugh at us. We all appreciate the different. Sometimes we eye it longingly.  It’s so unusual. But… In the end, better to wear the same thing our friends are wearing. Drive the same car. Sport the same hairstyle and totter on the same shoes. Lose weight, or plump our lips. Remove this and fill that, so we are the acceptable form of “beautiful”. Sometimes, the things we want more than anything, are the things we are told we want. And eventually, so many of us will be dyeing our hair and piercing our tongues and wearing our dad’s army boots, that we will all start looking the same. Same does not equal Good. Same doesn’t necessarily equal Bad. Same equals Same.

 Patchwork Quilts; The Freak Flag Series
carynjune

So last night, I get home a little late after services, and I decide instead of a shower I’m gonna take a bath. The weather has cooled a little, and it’s still a little damp from an earlier rainstorm. So I manage to get into the tub with a minimum of huffing and puffing, but later, between my bad left shoulder, my not so great knees and the fact that I seem to have gotten wider, while the tub has, indeed, not…, I can’t figure out how to get the #%^* out! I can’t seem to push myself up from a sitting position and there’s no room to turn to get myself onto all fours. This is ridiculous. I’m gonna have to wake up my husband and have him haul me out, or if that doesn’t work call the fire department. Can you imagine? No, don’t. Just…don’t. How did this happen? I’m healthy. I’m strong. I’m overweight, yes, but not yet a candidate for “My 600 lb Life”. Is gravity a little stronger wherever I go? Doubtful. Are my bones magnetic? Not so much. I think I may just be scared. Mistrusting that this body I no longer recognize will work the way it is meant to.  It is a wake up call. My body is perfect no matter what the size, it will do what needs to be done. At the same time, it deserves respect. Exercise, nutrition, love both from others, and especially from myself.  The petals might be a little droopy, but they are still beautiful. Old Flowers

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• If you don’t pick up your feet, you will trip on the stairs, and your venti mocha frappucino light will land on the floor with such force, splashing up  and over you, leaving you standing there dripping, like Carrie at the prom. 
• If you wait 40 years to apologize to someone you believe you have wronged, chances are they won’t remember. 
• If you don’t watch where you are going, you will run smack into the sign on the subway platform. 
• If it’s Monday, you will hate everyone. 
• Conversely, if it’s Friday, everyone is your BFF. 
• If you do something embarrassing, thinking no one is looking, someone is looking. 
• The things that you hate the most in other people are the things you do all the time.  
• You can’t get what you want just by wishing on a star.
• If you listen to your parents and put $5.00 in the bank every week, you will have a lot of money when you are older. 
• “They say you gain 10 pounds every 10 years” is not an excuse to eat doughnuts and ice cream all day. 
• 2 pounds of cherries is not a piece of fruit. 
• If you are a socially awkward, cranky and shy child, chances are good that you will be a socially awkward, cranky and shy adult. Just fatter and more wrinkly, and maybe just a little more interesting. 
• Money can totally buy happiness. 
• While you are pondering how homely the woman in front of you is, you will trip and fall on your face. 
• Stepping on a crack will not break your mother’s back. 
• You know a lot more than you think.  
• You are only as ”         ” (fill in the blanks), as you think you are. Step On a Crack

         carynjune 

The age of technology is an amazing thing. What did we do before we were glued to our cell phones? How did we get by without our tablets which do pretty much the same thing as our cell phones, but bigger? You can do anything on your phone. Read, write, play games, talk to people without saying a word, or ever looking them in the eye. My therapist lives in another state! The other day I tended 

bar at a high school graduation party. All of the guest of honor’s besties were sitting around one big table, eyes glued to their phones, texting each other. They were at the same table! My therapist has suggested I go a week without Facebook. I hear you all sputtering, ” but, but, that’s crazy talk! How will you know what’s going on with all of your friends?” More to the point, is how will I go a week without comparing myself to my “friends”, without comparing how few comments and “likes “I get as opposed to my more successful, happier “friends”. Without feeling bad because my “friends” not only have better lives than I do, they get a lot more attention on social media than I do. Let’s face it, peeps. There are about 10 of you out there who are actually friends. You read my blog. You know it’s my birthday without getting an alert from Facebook, you are well aware that I am 30 pounds heavier than my profile picture. That I am cranky, prone to temper tantrums, loyal, funny, creative. That I’m scared of getting old, getting sick, dying. That I’m crying as I write this. You may be right here in NY or across the country, or anywhere in between.  And you know who you are. I don’t really care that my “friend” Skippy has a fabulous career, perfect children, a rich husband and 345 “likes” every time she does her laundry. Maybe Skippy is sick, or sad, or has marital problems. Maybe Skippy doesn’t have 10 real friends, like I do. Only 345 “friends”, who just see what she wants them to see.  

 Leaf Faces the Crowd

carynjune 

So I’m walking through the Roosevelt Avenue Station and out of the corner of my eye I see this heavyset woman and I think to myself, “I love her pants, but she is way to fat for that shirt.” About 2 minutes later, I see her again and I think, “Mmm, not so sure about the pants, her butt looks huge. Cute haircut though.”  I turn a corner and there she is again! At first I think “I don’t really like her hair. Color is great, but the cut?  Meh. And her shoes? Don’t get me started! She’s basically a hot mess. Fat, frumpy, old, shoes from Aerosoles”. Then as I enter the train I see her across from me. Bitch is stalking me! Wait a minute!  That’s not just some random fat stalker! That’s me! I’ve been catching my reflection in the plate glass windows. In the last few years I’ve come so far from myself, even I don’t recognize me. It happens so gradually. The years go by and suddenly you find yourself in a galaxy far, far away. In the cosmos of graceful aging, I made a left instead of a right and seem to have missed my stop. I could just drift along, waiting for a spaceship going my way, but there is not always another one coming along right behind this one, no matter what they say. I’m gonna have to take dark matters into my own hands. I guess I’ll just flag down the Man in the Moon and hitch a ride.

The Man in the Moon

carynjune

I have become obsessed with Bingo. No, I haven’t yet staked my claim at the nearest senior center, elbowing my neighbors in the hopes of winning a toaster. Video Bingo is my game of choice. I play it on the train in the morning, on the train in the evening. I’m playing it now.  Bingo Bash. Bingo Blitz. Wheel of Fortune Bingo. Price is Right Bingo. Bingo Vegas. Bingo Heaven. Bingo Pop. Have you ever played Bingo? You don’t have to do anything. You just watch these balls roll by and pray for Bingo. What the hell kind of game is that?  It’s literally the most mindless form of entertainment.  I love it. Why? Why do I love it?  I just do.  And if you’re honest with yourself, you love it too. What is it about a game that you don’t even have to actually play to enjoy? For me, there is, of course the anticipation of getting something for nothing. I don’t have to be smart or accomplished, or shell out any money. I don’t have to sweat or persevere, or dream or fail. I just have to stare at these balls, move my finger occasionally, and muster up a little excitement, when said balls align themselves to give me a Bingo. yea…. And it’s so mindless, it leaves my mind free to brood, and stew and simmer. I can give my full focus to the  relentless monkey chatter that occupies the attic without paying rent. Or, maybe it’s just a game of chance. Like the lottery or slot machines. As in any game of chance, the more opportunities you get, the more likely you are to win once in a while. The more pulls on the one-armed bandit, the more scratch-offs, the more balls. It takes balls to get through this game. Sometimes more than I feel like I’ve got. But if I search that attic from top to bottom, ignoring the monkeys and the noise,  there in the corner…more balls.  

NAMASTE

carynjune  

Art is subjective.  While some may look at Picasso’s Guernica and see the bombing of the city of the same name, feel the fear and destruction, others may tilt their head and question why both eyes are on one side of the head. Monet’s Water Lilies? It’s just a bunch of dots!!! We can instinctively get that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. Well, you get the point. We are willing to shrug and say, “it’s not to my taste, but I get why you like it”. Why is it so hard, then to cut ourselves the same slack?  My husband thinks I’m beautiful. Fat, thin, in his eyes I’m perfect. I, on the other hand, never think I look beautiful. When, I was younger, smoother, thinner, I wanted to be younger, smoother, thinner. I look at old pictures and wonder why I thought I was fat and ugly I and wish I looked like the person in the photo. As I ponder the foolishness of the younger me, I realize how much I have learned. Absolutely nothing. My body has changed with age. Everything seems to have shifted and I am a beach ball with legs. I don’t look like my younger self. I don’t look my profile picture on Facebook. I feel fat, and old and I hate my hair. And yet, someday, when I am 100, and scooting around town in my Hoveround motorized wheelchair, I will bitch and moan about how good I looked in my 50’s and ask myself why I didn’t take better care of the artwork that is me.  

The Art of Design

carynjune