My aching feet long for the warm water despite it being summer. I am in the shower and looking at the water cascading from the shower head when on impulse I look up. The cover that shields the plumbing from the onlookers eyes is loose. I reach up to adjust it and notice the rough edges of the circle cut out on the drywall for the water pipe. I notice the raw, unpolished edges of the pipe before it is swallowed up by the cover I just fix. In a moment, the illusion of perfection slips and I see it for what it is.

Earlier in the morning as I soaped my hands and washed them, I noticed the underside of the faucet, rough from weeks of salt deposit. I scrubbed it off. Everywhere I turn today, the universe seems to be sending me a message. My WhatsApp pinged late yesterday with a reminder about the makeup class I signed up for.

I turn fifty this year. I barely use anything but moisturizer on me. Yet, just this week, packages arrived every day. A brand new makeup bag now boasts moisturizer, sunscreen, primer, foundation, concealer, highlighter, bronzer, eye shadow, eyebrow pencil, mascara, eye liner, lip liner, lip tint, lipstick and, makeup removing stuff. I am excited for the class tomorrow.

Why now?

This question haunts me. It is not like I work in an office or have a people facing job. I rarely if ever, step out of the house. I have been thinking about it. Learning to apply makeup to me is another of those things that feel/felt insurmountable. In my head, it was not my domain. I was not one who could be fixed by pretty makeup. My body dysphoria and self esteem issues run deep. This class is about conquering fear. It is about learning to embrace myself warts and all contrary to how it feels.

Each day, I loop between my various social media feeds. Every post on there feels like a cry for attention, mine included. I notice which voices attract the most attention. I take note of what I post and how I feel when I post something. Some days, it feels like a cry into the void. Some days, it is exactly what I need, the ability to speak but not be heard.

As the end of the year creeps up on me, I am taking stock of the life lived thus far. Who has stayed, who has left, who is loud, who is invisible in my life. Suddenly, I feel the urge to put the cover back on my life, to pretend the corrugation does not exist. The illusion is perfect, why mess with it?