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No sleep, no makeup
On Friday morning my sleeplessness caught up with me. Five nights of insomnia and other sleep problems all told my body it was overdrawn. I slept through my alarm. I don't remember hearing it. Nonelvis kissed me goodbye at some point; I don't remember that either. I remember waking up at eleven a.m. I had had a ten a.m. appointment at work with a student who was going to show me how to reproduce this bug I've been trying to kill. Oops. Damn.
The day didn't go uphill from there. Later that afternoon, unable to focus on work, I went downtown to run a few errands. I ended up at the cosmetics area in Saks. The place was packed. All sorts of giveaways and people thronging around and women doing makeovers - it was apparently the day for makeovers; out in front of the Needless Markup there were all these temporary tables and chairs in black, with women also in black, doing makeovers on anyone who got close enough.
Of course, the MAC counter wasn't giving anything away. They never do. The people there are so intimidating - everything's black and neo and severe, which is a pity, because they make the most incredible stuff - and given its founder, you'd think the company would be drag-queen-tolerant, if not outright friendly. But I can never ask the clerks anything. They're just too intimidating.
I'm sure I made the woman at the Clinique counter suspicious. She asked me three times if I was sure I didn't need any help. Now this woman's no idiot. I'm not looking at the men's stuff, after all, I'm looking at foundation. I'm reading the labels. I'm comparing products. She's dying to help me, and she seems sincere, and not likely to freak out. But I can't do it. I can't just say to her, "Actually, yes - I'm looking for a liquid foundation in my skin tone that's fairly oil-free and also strong enough to conceal this stubble."
I just can't do it.
As I said to sdn in an email, it's hard to want to assert one's individualistic ideas of appearance and be scared of people thinking you're a weirdo at the same time.
The people at the Body Shop did the exact same thing. They were dying to help me. If I'd been looking at bath goodies I'd have let them help me, But I wasn't. I was looking at stick concealer. (Which, by the by, I have a lot of. It doesn't work.)
It depressed me enough that when I met Nonelvis for dinner, I had to get halfway through an excellent endive-apple-blue cheese salad before my mood improved. Food, sex, shopping. Guaranteed mood boosters. But two are expensive and one is sometimes difficult to choreograph. (I don't worry much about my weight.)
And writing is another. After lingering depression on Saturday I realized that I needed prose. So on Sunday I wrote a 2500-word story for Mary Anne ... rested a while, had a nice dinner Nonelvis cooked ... then wrote a 6100-word story later that night.
I stayed up late doing it, but it wasn't that which hurt me. I got into bed and I found that my throat was sore and dry, my sinuses clogged. I got up and had water - I'd had a lot of caffeine that day. I had a mint to try to soothe my throat. No dice. I couldn't breathe. Finally I gave up and took a Drixoral - conceding defeat, because I know I won't be able to sleep after I have one of those.
But I'd rather be awake and have a happy throat, then awake trying to get to sleep with a sore throat.
I'm not sure whether I slept or not. My brain was constructing this elaborate paranoid fantasy world that seemed real and dangerous at the time. When I got out of bed it all vanished. That sounds like a dream to me, but I didn't feel like I was asleep. And I certainly don't feel like I got any sleep.
Which is where I am now. And since I can't concentrate enough to work, I'll probably go home and sleep in the middle of the day, which will ensure that my cycle is a mess for the rest of the week.
I hate this.
But at least I got two stories written, and I did a nude sketch of a friend this week which is incredibly bad, but she wanted "fan art" and I did it as a joke, so it doesn't have to be great.
I don't know if the second story is any good. I didn't read it all the way through once I'd finished it. I was too tired then, and I'm even more too tired now.
Later. I'll do everything. Later.
© Columbine
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Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were all girl days. I have begun to use conditioner for the first time ever. It's an "anti-frizz" formula. I looked and looked and I couldn't find any bottles except this one which seemed to be meant for really curly hair. Later I realized that the curly-hair products are usually marked as "For chemically treated or damaged hair." I find that bad reasoning. My hair doesn't feel or act the same way as hair that's been permed or bleached too much.
The conditioner doesn't do much to the appearance of the hair. But applying it allows me to blow-dry my hair without having it look like a Van de Graaf struck-by-lightning halo, sticking out all over the place. And that's important, because it means I can actually wash my hair in the mornings before work now. I discovered that on Friday. It was the high point of my day.
Sunday was a boy day. Big time. I even went out of the house with my glasses on. Stubble and my hair pulled back. I avoided looking into any reflective surfaces while I was out.
Today would be a girl day, except that I'm not sure it's even a human day. I feel like primordial sludge.
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