Who buys this crap?

During my warm-up on the treadmill this morning, I was enjoying a few pages of my Glamour (since you all know how I feel about parenting mags)and I decided to actually read the beauty section. I normally pass this area over as I doubt I will find time to expand my current weekday beauty regimen of sunscreen, chapstick and mascara anytime soon, nor do I have loads of extra cash to purchase trendy colors of eye shadow and lipstick that I will wear three times before they are out of style. And shut up, H, I know the makeup I do use is expensive, but do you really want a wife who uses Wet 'n Wild cosmetics and the look that comes with it? Seriously.

Anyway, this obviously means it's been a while since I have delved into the current world of beauty and, much to my surprise, the trend I thought would go the way of skinny jeans** is still going strong - lip gloss. A few years back, when I was coming out my postpartum haze, I decided I needed some new makeup for an upcoming event and I happily trotted off to my local MAC counter (who RuPaul was a spokesperson for, incidentally). Feeling like and out-of-touch schlub I let the overly made up gay man, who I was probably sleep deprived enough to believe was actually RuPaul talk me into buying, not only a set of false eye lashes (which were ripped off in a drunken fury in the ladies room during said event), but a tube of MAC's Lipglass as well. I left the store feeling tapped in to the beauty mainstream and cheerfully looked forward to wearing my purchases.

The night of the event arrives, and after carefully blowing out my hair, gluing on my falsies (lashes, not boobs, as I was nursing and had enough cleavage for ten women), getting dressed in an outfit that strategically hid my baby weight and aforementioned giant mammaries, I whipped out my Lipglass and carefully applied a coat with the snazzy little wand. I look so cute! My lips looked fuller and sexy! I was young and modern! Already running late, I turned quickly to grab my handbag and, immediately, the front of my carefully blown out coif was stuck to my lips. Extract hair, reapply. Entering the living room to say goodbye to the kids, I leaned over to kiss them and each was left with a shimmery pink oil slick on their cheeks. Clean children, reapply.

Hubby and I make our escape and as he opens the car door for me (as he does on date nights and I wish he would do every day, but since I'm usually the one driving I guess I should be opening his door) and kisses me. He now looks like he's been making out with a tub of Crisco. Wipe off H's mug, reapply (and repeat, repeat, repeat, as H and I do a fair amount of smooching once we are free of the progeny which might be the reason we have so many). We get to the party and after my first sip (OK, gulp) of wine I see my glass has a disgusting, sticky, pink residue around the rim. Blech. And I'm sure this shit has come entirely off my lips again. And with that, my affair with lip gloss was over.

I simply can not understand how women so faithfully use a product that prevents any rapid movement when sporting unrestrained hair, kissing of loved ones and significant others, and drinking. Ponytail-wearing, reclusive, teetotalers can not be supporting this market alone. Then I figured it out that it must be the single gals who keep this boat afloat. Who else has time to constantly reapply cosmetics and the desire to look desirable, but no guarantee said attractiveness will result in any physical contact? Plus they do most of their drinking at bars so no embarrassing, greasy glasses left behind at dinner parties.***

So I will continue to use my matte wineberry MAC lipstick even if it means I'm a cosmetic neanderthal because life that does not include wine, copious smooches from my kids and making out with Hubby in the van on the way home from date night just doesn't make sense.

*Read: daily debate with myself over whether slogging my way through a pathetic jog or returning to my nice, warm bed would be a better use of my scant "alone time". And I use quotations since time spent torturing yourself on a piece of exercise equipment should be considered a physical necessity like using the toilet despite H's insistence it's the equivalent to an hour at the nail salon and qualifies as both "alone time" and "personal maintenance". Sure, and do you want me to start wearing elastic waist, pleated jeans since they will be the only ones I fit into without these efforts? I thought not.

**Skinny jeans only look good on the anorexic, heroin-addicted models designers hang out with and should never have been mass marketed as evidenced by the pairs that were painted on teens at the local mall. Not even they, at their lithe teenaged best look decent in them.

***Single readers feel free to clue my in on how lip gloss plays into kissing when on dates.