My eyes were red and puffy by the time I got to the makeup counter yesterday.
I had been on the phone with a friend—a longtime confidante who knew all about the rash of issues I’d been having lately—and I was weeping uncontrollably, each tear punctuated by hiccups. My boyfriend was at a concert, and it seemed pointless to talk to him had he even picked up my calls. People gave me strange looks, and when a security guard gave my bag an over-aggressive tug while the strap was still hanging on my shoulder, I snapped.
“Why are you picking on me when you didn’t even check her bag?” I demanded, pointing at the woman ahead of me.
He looked embarrassed for a moment, then his face clouded. Raising his voice enough for everyone to hear, he berated me for moving too fast. “But you pulled my bag while I was still holding it!” I argued. It was useless, so I went into the mall before he could go on a power-tripping kick that would get me thrown out of the mall.
A minute later, the tears started falling. I had a difficult day—a difficult week, a difficult month—and it took a small altercation with a security guard to push me over the edge. But I had to get ready to tape a show in an hour, and I looked like a mess. I certainly didn’t want to do my own makeup, so I went over to the Shu Uemura counter (my favorite makeup brand since college). The brand assistant looked startled when I set my bags down on the counter.
“Please make me look decent,” I begged her.
