Embracing the Stereotype

I hate to admit this, but I had a blast at last night's meeting.  I know that's the basic concept going in, and I take great joy in seeing my friends.  It's just that...well...

The topic of the meeting was makeup.  We go to great lengths to present high-minded, thoughtful agendas at our meetings.  And this seems so superficial.  Yet, it was fascinating!  Color, and contouring, and liquids vs. powders, and covering the beard, and brushes, and so much more.  Rebecca used to manage a MAC counter in Atlanta, and she knows her stuff.  I learned so much, and she was great with the wisecracks.  A quick wit and an artist.

She did two makeovers while we watched and asked questions.  Cassie got subtler daytime makeup, and Vanessa got a more glamorous look with smoky eyes.  Both looked marvelous, but the main point was to demonstrate technique and choices.

I've always figured that my wife imagines my meetings as a bunch of overly made-up men, talking fashion and brushing one another's wigs and practicing their campy walks.  In fact, I bet many folks would assume that. I don't want people to think that of us.  I want them to know that we are serious, usually sober, thoughtful people, which we are. 

And now I find myself, against all personal tenets, wishing that every meeting could be this feminine discussion and bonding.  My inner killjoy (very strong!) thinks that makeup is a silly, slight subject.  My heart, though, understands that makeup is what allows me to feel like myself at these meetings.  I can't hide my face behind clothing, at least not in this culture, so I am left to feminize it as best I can.  The difference can be startling, as most of you ladies know.  Makeup can make or break your presentation, build or destroy your confidence.  That's a lot to ask of an eyeliner.

Now I must order some primer and bronzer and a full coverage foundation and some kohl pencils and a better set of brushes, and find some time to practice the sweet science of makeup.

The Night the Earth Stood Still

The news is out, and my American audience has surely heard.  Now, in cultural backwaters like the UK (I kid!), you mightn't have heard that my UK, the University of Kentucky, won the national championship in basketball Monday. 

Kentucky is roundly hated in the basketball world.  It's one of those teams that you grow up with and love, or else they are mortal enemies of whatever team you root for.  Would Manchester United be an apt comparison?  Notre Dame football seems similar as well.  The school motto should be, "Don't hate me just because I'm beautiful," words that roll off my own painted lips often.

The contempt of their peers is, in a way, respect.  Who hates bunny rabbits?  Well, we don't really respect them, either.  I was born here, and got two degrees from Kentucky, so last night warms the cockles of my heart, right down to the bone, the cold, cold bone of my Kentucky heart.  (I never studied anatomy.)

When UK won the semifinal game Saturday, the whole campus area erupted in riots.  Cars were flipped, couches were burned in the streets.  Multitudes were arrested.  Imagine if we had lost!  Monday night, the celebration was enormous, but the police were better prepared, and the school warned that there would be academic consequences to any student misbehavior.  The riot was much more subdued, a riot tempered by respect for one's fellow fan.  A nice riot.

Tuesday will be a day of parades and people skipping work.  Not me, mind you.  I am far too mature to be taken in by Wildcat Fever.  Wildcat Rash, maybe.  Mostly, I will sit back and observe others, as I have done all my life, and scratch every now and then.