Dispatches from Vanity Fair

So this morning, on a whim, I pulled out some foundation that I had bought for our wedding and daubed it on.  When I stepped back from the mirror, I was almost dismayed to see the pronounced improvement, as it highlighted the obvious need for more radical cosmetic interventions with my advancing age. 

I grew up in New Jersey during a period of time when the mall look had peaked nationwide (later, when the rest of the country was to move on, NJ would remain true to its 1980s commitments).  From there, I went straight to a college that could have originated the lumberjack-grunge look of the 1990s, so I grew out my bangs, stopped wearing makeup, and acquired a number of flannel shirts.  

Having stayed in academia, I never picked the makeup habit back up, even when I graduated from college and started purchasing clothes that actually fit, and required ironing.  When you're young, going without make-up can just seem fresh-faced, but I fear the day has arrived when I can no longer pull it off.  Now I am faced with a choice: continue my low-maintenance ways and accept the compromises of age, or begin what I am certain will become the first steps in an ever-more-complicated routine against the inevitable.  Sigh!