Ode to an Eyelash Curler

A friend of mine is convinced - beyond all reason - that she was a princess in another life. I, however, have no idea how people who believe in such things can keep up with what they did a lifetime or two ago. I cannot remember where I park my car. And yesterday, I found the pair of socks I'd intended to slide on my chilly feet in the refrigerator. I'm sure at the time I put them there it seemed a good idea to chill them....

It's exactly this sort of absent-mindedness that makes me laugh about getting even older. I can only imagine how crazy I'll be in another 26 years. As it is, I'm already seeing things go south, dry out, and get wrinkly-crinkly. No wonder girls used to get married at 12. By about 15, we've peaked! (Unless you're Sheryl Crow or Heather Locklear. They were terribly unfortunate-looking in junior high. You've seen them, right?)

I wonder about all this as I get dressed for a date. With the lawyer. Tonight. I usually enjoy getting ready for dates (especially with cute lawyers), but today is different somehow. Here it is... an hour before I expect his knock on the door, and I have 2,759 outfits littering my hotel suite. Nearly as many shoes have surfaced as well. My hair is in multi-colored velcro rollers, which some gay hairdresser in In Style magazine assured me would create bouncy, sexy waves. I have "lip plump" on my lips, whitener on my teeth, tanner on my legs, fingernail polish on 20 semi-dry nails, and an eyelash curler in hand.

(I figure he warrants the eyelash curler. I'd hate for this to fizzle only to later hear that he left me for a girl with curlier eyelashes. I don't think I could go on.)

So I bravely go where normal girls only go whenever they have dates. I shave, wax, drink 11 bottles of water, and practice sucking in. I try on outfits and hurl myself in front of the full-length mirror. Hmmm... that one works, as long as I don't sit down - or sneeze. Another one looks dashing - as long as he's looking at me from the boobs up... from across the table... while seated.

Crap. Maybe I'll fake fatigue and put on baggy jeans and suggest take-out. But I guess that isn't entirely appropriate for the second or third date, though, huh?

Sigh.

If these poor, unsuspecting guys even had a clue. If this sweet darling had any idea that I've starved myself for two days straight and tried to sleep with ice-cold eye baggies over my puffy, circled peepers, I'd die.

It's just like last time. Our first date, I labored through the most lengthy, freaky beauty routine EVER. And I guessed it paid off, because once we got in his car and he started it up, he looked over at me shyly and said, "You're very pretty. Naturally pretty. Ashley Judd pretty."

Awh. I tried not to laugh.

So... as I get ready to dash back to the mirror - eyelash curler in hand - it hits me. Maybe I wasn't a princess in my last life. Maybe, just maybe, I could be one in this life.

Or at last my eyelash curler and I can pretend.