Monday, July 9, 2012

And now for a brain-dead post

Creme Brûlée Honey Bath Product Image
My guinea pig appears to be having a nervous breakdown. The culprit? It may be the bizarre coconut/chemical ooze scent wafting off my body. He has a similar reaction to Laura Mercier's Creme Brûlée Honey Bath only this one includes more nose twitching. It's almost like he's trying to say, "It smells like it should be delicious, but I'm afraid."

Well, I think he should be. I've been slathering Jergens Natural Glow. Unlike the kind Jlo sells in a bottle, this glow is supposed to take a few days to "develop." How does a fake tan develop? Do I even want an answer to that question? Also, why exactly am I doing this to myself? I am transparent and it's summer. Also, I live in New Jersey. If you're a woman living in New Jersey and you don't look like something across between an Oompa Loompa and the jerky hanging from end caps at Trader Joe's, it's hard to feel like you belong. New York City is just across the bridge, but the people there seem to be at peace with their mole-like existence. The ones who aren't usually avoid the sun because, like everything else, they believe it's conspiring against them. (If any New Yorkers are reading this, please understand that I have to poke a little fun at the really neurotic among you. I think you know who I'm talking about. You know, those people who call, and you immediately want to go to the creepy basement to do laundry just so you can say you're busy.)

The fake tan is not the worst beauty experiment so far. I have yet to top the leg waxing incident. One Sunday night, I decided I was going to use a home wax kit to rid myself of all that unsightly fuzz. I fell on my ass several times---not fun on bathroom tile, and managed to bruise my shins yanking the strips off. What? Don't judge! The instructions said to pull hard, so I did. I didn't know they meant pull hard, but not that hard. I left the leg on.

Last night, I gave myself a manicure with Essie's Lilacism. Just imagine the mani on that blog with lumps on it and lightly painted cuticles.

Why do I do this to myself? Why don't I just leave it to the pros? It's not even like I can't afford to see people who really know what they're doing. There's just something so thrilling and deviant about giving yourself a manicure at midnight on Sunday. It's not like I can go to the local salon in my jammies at that hour.

Maybe I just need to face the fact that part of me will always be 14. It's too bad that part of me isn't my thighs.