Archived Observation

I think that I like the idea of makeup more than the makeup itself. I don’t really wear much of it, but I like looking at all the groovy names of the colors. I’m intrigued by the promises of a healthy glow, as if you were just outside skating on a frozen pond in 32-degree weather, when in reality you never left the confines of your life-draining, flourescently-lit cubicle. I kind of relish the hunt to find a lipstick/lip gloss/lip stain that stays on my lips for longer than 30 minutes and doesn’t cost me close to $30 to find out that, despite what the pretty Stila lady told you, this one won’t, either. What I don’t love, though, is the actual scary act of going into a department store to look at the makeup in person.

On second thought, maybe the experience is not so much scary as it is a shocking overload to the senses. Since the other day I discovered that my procrastinatory nature had led to my once-pointy Origins Olive Eyeliner being worn down to a little nub, I decided that it was high time I went to Macy’s to seek out it’s replacement. Macy’s in and of itself is enough to drive you have a nervous breakdown, what with all of it’s constant expanding into neighboring buildings and relocation of departments, not to mention it’s inexplicable tourist draw which forces you to do the exhausting shuffle-and-dodge-dodge-and-shuffle walk to get around all of the gawking obstacles that are the non-Macy’s-having midwestern/European tourists. Multiply that annoyance by about a thousand for Macy’s during the holiday season, with all of it’s miles of cheap red carpeting and about a million gold stars hanging from the ceiling.

After stepping onto the red carpet and shielding my eyes from the gazillion-watt lightbulbs that light up the cosmetics counters and, most likely, highlight every facial flaw of the consumer, I went over to the Origins section, passing on my right the MAC section with all of it’s music and dressed-in-black beautiful young salespeople, and passing on my left the Lancome counter with all of it’s French-looking, beautiful, older salespeople, the beautiful salespeople seemingly being the other device used to highlight every facial flaw of the consumer. When I finally got to the Origins section and picked up a display eyeliner, a saleswoman swooped, swooped (if she had wings she would have been flapping them furiously, that’s how fast she swooped) over to me, desperately wanting to make a sa–…I mean really wanting to help me. Well, the thing that would actually help both of us, makeup department persons, is for you to just leave me alone when I say I’m "just looking," because that way I could actually look at everything without the added pressure of you and your perfect skin hovering around me, and who knows, I may end up actually buying more that way; and it would be nice to browse for a change, rather than having to institute a military strike-type visit to your counter.