First of all, a caveat: I am incredibly crabby today. See the post below for why.

But second? Second, I DO NOT WISH TO LOOK LIKE A GOTHIC CLOWN this fall. And yet, the makeup companies are launching tons of dark, dark “smoldering” colors for lips and eyes that will make me look like a daguerrotype. PLUS, I DID that look the first time around! I used to wear super-dark lipstick, smoky eyes, blah, blah, blah. People with darker skin can handle those rich colors, but me? I look like Morticia Addams, without the cool-ass dress. And the knock’emdead figure.

And I know myself. I love dark colors, I will get sucked in, and end up buying something that’s called something like ‘witch’s blood’ or ‘burnished crow’s wing’ (oh, for goodness’ sake, one of the MAC descrips is “burnished eggplant.” Kill me now) and then I will wear it, and then what? I WILL LOOK LIKE A CLOWN!

I am not fond of clowns.

Megan

PS: Did you know there is a word–coulrophobia–meaning abnormal or exaggerated fear of clowns?
PPS: I image-googled “fall 2008 makeup” and this is the first picture that appeared. I rest my case.

First off, don’t let my in(s)anity keep you from ordering Carolyn’s book, here.

But here’s the deal: My grandmother, whom I’ve mentioned here before, had excellent taste in clothes. She only wore four colors: Black, white, hot pink and navy. She and my grandfather had to attend a lot of fancy dress affairs, thanks to his job (he was in retail), so she had a massive wardrobe. MASSIVE.

I have almost a dozen of her and my aunt’s gowns, from Geoffrey Beene to Christian Dior to things she whipped up herself. She was an excellent seamstress, and had five kids, so couture wasn’t always in the cards.

But she was also anorexic (I have two other female relatives with bulimia and morbid obesity. Is it any wonder I’m so messed up?). She weighed *maybe* 110 pounds her whole life, and was proud that she was back to her usual weight within a week of having kids (twins included!). By the time she died, she was a little more than 80 pounds.

So when I try on her gowns–keeping in mind the last time I saw 110 pounds was in fourth grade or something–why am I so incredibly bummed I can’t fit into all of them? I can fit into some, but there’s one that just won’t zip without some serious elbow grease, and the Spouse and I didn’t think it was worth possibly wrecking the gown just to see me bundled into it.

I’ve been in a black cloud since that last one wouldn’t zip. What the hell? I can fit into most, thanks to generous hip allowance and a small waist, but not all. Shouldn’t I be okay with that? Why do I have to be so neurotic? Of course, it doesn’t help that I haven’t worked out consistently since April, and my arms are bugging me. When September comes, I am SO going back to the gym. Then I’ll wear a b&w Dior gown to pick my son up from school. That’ll show ‘em.

Sometimes I think I’m just fine, and then sometimes I really I am just a big hot mess.