Call me Mrs. Vain
(I know what I want and I want it now...)
Beware, an entry in which I speak about all matters of EMBARRASINGLY girlie things including makeup, bras, and dieting.

This morning:
me: Aw, rats, I broke my makeup bag!
Justin: Gasp! Your Guccio Armani black, rhinestone-studded, hard-to-find, impossible-to-replace makeup bag?!?!?!
Me: Yup.
Justin: Well, shit!

Here's a bit about me: I keep my makeup in a plastic, zip-lok baggie, sandwich size. I don't wear much but I carry it in my purse, which means I take it with me pretty much everywhere I go. I only own a few standard items, several of which are over half a year old: spot concealor, sponge applicator, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, burts bees chapstick, lip liner (which I've had since prom my senior year). I don't need to wear makeup to feel good, or to go out in public. I used to be aghast at the thought of the world seeing my poor, disheveled face without preening a bit... Alex can attest to that. In fact, I have a picture around here of the ex's reaction to me putting on mascara. It's rather cute. But I still wear makeup almost every day. Enough to make me feel good, but barely enough to be there. And thanks to Alex's vehement hatred of my makeup, I always think of Helena when I'm applying it. I gotta say, the brain crossreferences things in funny ways.

I really am a strange girl when it comes to self-maintenance. I used to be much more hung up on cleanliness, clothes, and preening... mostly because I felt I wasn't attractive and no matter what I did I would look like a fool. I would be put off if I couldn't shower daily (at the same time) or dry my hair. I'd freak out to be without makeup (though the hormones really did wonders for my skin). I was upset because my mom refused to buy me brand-name clothes and took me shopping at K-Mart. Needless to say, all this stemmed from a gross misrepresentation in the eyes of my peers... err... I was made fun of. So were all of us with any real substance. But it gave me lovely complexes about self-image.

Thankfully, living on my own has given me control of all of these aspects of my life. I choose what I eat, what I wear, where I go out. I'll still buy brand names over not, but I won't buy the most expensive thing I find (I got the thriftiness from my mom anyway). So last night found me in Victoria's Secret deciding to buy bras. I haven't bought a bra since... well... Valentines day... but that one isn't for wearing OUT. That is to say, it's a great bra but doesn't look right under clothes. Erhm. But ASIDE FROM that... I hadn't bought a practical bra for a few years. I was "converted" to those lovely, nifty, tank-top built-in-bra things my freshman year and have since acquired vast quantities of them. I wear them year round. In the summer, exclusively. Other seasons, under clothes. They're comfy but problem is, they aren't really that flattering or uber-supportive. I'm sure you love to hear me complain, but I don't have the biggest god-given accentuation. So I decided to use my brand-newly-activated Gold Card to begin a history of DEBT and buy some bras at "Vickie's." I really hate bra shopping. There are too many things that are the same but different, that fit wrong and look bad... or even worse, that fit well, look good, and are $$PRICEY$$. Thus was the case last night. I went home with four for a grand total of $119. Not all, mind you, of which I plan to keep.

Buying bras is just sort of insulting. It's like buying makeup, but worse. We women feel like we have to pack ourselves into wire and padding, suck it in, hoist it up, all to look like we just tourniquetted our torsos. Well, I for one don't plan on looking like an African Village woman when I'm thirty, but DAMN... the padding on some of those things is ludicrious. Bleh. Like plate armor, I tell you! So now I have some and I have to decide, after parading around, whether I like the one that makes me look like Dolly Parton (wide load), Madonna (pointy), or Jennifer Aniston (perky). Ho hum. Can't we all just run around nekkid? Err... well... WALK around nekkid, it hurts less with the bouncy-bouncy.

In any case, all this preening made me realize that I still have self-image issues. Despite the fact that I'm over ten pounds lighter and five sizes (hurray for muscle mass) smaller than I used to be, I still look in the mirror and think, "(sigh) it could be better..." The truth is, it could. I'm fine with it now, I love myself, but I still want to go for that uber-built swimsuit model physique. I just don't know if I have it in me (literally). I mean, what the hell would I have to do? I work out 4-5 times a week doing cardio (1/2 hour, 400 cals), lift weights three times a week, bike a few miles a day, and eat healthy. Why do I not pwn my body? It still says, "nooo nooo iceeeecreeeeaaaammm.... we rullle youuuu." Shut up! Grrr. I just don't know what kind of effort it would take for me to lose the eight pounds I put on this spring. I think I'm really too contented and too lazy. And too much a size seven. Both of my sisters are a size seven. My cousin is a size seven. And the girl looks... small... to say the least. I could never be a smaller size, bones not permitting. So why do I even care? Ugh. This is me shutting up for fear of sounding obsessed (which I am, mind you, I just don't let on much). I really can't complain (but I just did) because I know I shouldn't try because that's where the problems start. I've been there before and I don't want to risk causing myself problems. It just doesn't make sense, for how active I am, that I should be stuck on this weird plateau. I want to be Super Girl, dammit! It makes me FEEL good.

It's almost lunch break and guess where I'm going? ... back to the mouse wheel! Someone dangle a sundae in front of my nose, please. ^^ And damn, the makeup is falling out of the hole I ripped in my ziplok baggie.