You’re so vain. You probably think this column is about you, don’t you? Don’t you? Well, it’s not. This one is about me and my teeny-tiny little eyes.
And I’m not apologizing for my self-deprecating humour, either. I’ve been calm throughout this pandemic, but now I’m going to vent my frustration. Me and Carly Simon (If you didn’t get the Carly Simon reference, Google her. Right. Now. Shame on you).
I have been a good COVID-respecting citizen. My hands sting from constant handwashing. I have no social life because I stay home. I don’t leave Wellington County. I support local shops. And I happily social distance. I should get a gold star for compliance and cooperation.
I wear my mask everywhere I’m supposed to. I have a drawer full of them. I’ve even started to coordinate them with my moods: flowers for happy days, patterns for focused days, and a black mask for mischief “I wish I was a ninja” days (a stealth look-out-behind-you kind of ninja, because ninjas get to do stuff like high-kick people and never get caught). It feels mysterious. I also have a mask that reads “mean people suck.” That’s self-explanatory. Also true. Thus, I never high-kick people.
Because of masks, I’ve stopped wearing lipstick, the only cosmetic I actually know how to apply. Boy, do I wish I understood eyeshadow and eyeliner. This leads me to my one minor complaint: I look awful in masks.
Oh, I know, you think you do too. You don’t. You’re fine. This isn’t about you, remember? This is about me and my teeny-tiny eyes that all but disappear when a mask takes up most of my face.
Eyes are crucial to reading one’s expression, unless you are me. If I smile, you can’t see my mouth behind the mask, and guess what? You can’t see my eyes at all. They disappear. Exhaustion has the same effect. There are no other tell-tale signs of my emotions showing in these little hazel eyes, unless my retinas glow red, in which case, it’s too late for you. In mere seconds, you’ll turn into a toad. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
These almond-shaped eyes of mine have even sparked debate as to my ancestral heritage. I assure you, my genetic history is boring. I just have freakishly tiny peepers. That’s it. That’s all.
Making this situation more dramatic is aging. Fine lines may, in fact, be a sign I’m officially cracking up. I’ve tried lotions, potions and water consumption all day long. Creams. Slippery eye jellies. Eye masks. Warm cloths. Cold compresses. You name it.
It’s cruel to have dark circles with already sunken eyes. Maybe I’m caving in? Imploding. But I assure you, eating a family-sized bag of salted potato chips is not the answer. Ever seen tiny eyes puffy? No, you haven’t, because the eyes vanish. Telltale signs.
Turning 50 in a pandemic brings on the vanity insanity for sure, but I’m still not vain enough to do something about it. Injections? Eeks. Make-up tutorials? Ugh. Drop the chips? Fat chance. Self-love? Sure.
Also, sunglasses, a car ride and Carly Simon car-karaoke. She has small eyes too.
And she knows I’m not that vain.
