Makeup

I recently read about a nationwide event called "No Makeup Week," designed to raise consciousness of artificial standards of beauty imposed on women, etcetera.

This came at an inopportune time for me, as this summer I recently started wearing makeup again, after four years of nothing more than chapstick. During high school, I was obsessive and yet weirdly low-maintenance about nearly everything (obsessive about being low maintenance?); the idea of worrying about haggard-looking streaks of red on my mouth was a huge turn off, and a few boyfriends who genuinely appreciated the quote-unquote natural glow look convinced me to just ignore the whole industry.

A desire to compete with the beautiful, in-shape, well-turned out girls at my university probably influenced me to start wearing makeup again (because, let's face it, nothing will reform a grungy/punkish/anti-whatever girl quicker then not being noticed). That, and the hypnotically black-and-white tiled Sephora.

Sephora. I have no idea why they decided to name a makeup chain after the wife of Moses, although it's appropriate for me because I initially went there to mist myself with perfumes that were appealing due to some similarly arcane, vaguely literary/historic backstory.

In any event, I now have a small battery of cosmetics, which are stored in an equally small overseas-flight complimentary toiletries bag: I'm afraid that if I get something bigger (say, the lucite train case at the container store that i'm totally not still obsessed with six months after seeing it) I'll just buy more to fill it, like my parents slowly filling our too-large house with furniture that doesn't get used.

One example of something I'd buy to fill the empty space?

This blush compact, Hungry Heart by Nars. You can't really tell, but it's shimmery and sparkly and reminds me of the two-toned tights at American Apparel (this entry is turning into a laundry list of things I lust after but refuse to let myself buy).

I actually bought it, and had it briefly, during a rush of false shopping enthusiasm brought on during Fashion's Night Out; then promptly returned it the next day, a sheepish pit stop on a seemingly endless trek back from one outer borough to another.