concealer

I do believe in the genius that is under-eye concealer. But I want to take some time to address how it should be worn--or at least, how it should be applied. Because application is key.

So I'm risking life and limb here by revealing some unbelievably unattractive photos (1 and 2, specifically) so that you can see step by step just how it's done (well, how I do it, I should say).

Note the dark circles. I blame my Polish roots (mostly because i once read an article in which Diane Kruger talked about inheriting very dark under-eye circles from her Polish grandmother). Every time I go home and I walk downstairs that first morning, I give my mother a fright. Am I sick? Have I not been sleeping? she wonders. Nope. Just genetics. And maybe bad allergies--that's my hypothesis.

Euf. Okay, now that you've seen the before, let's get to work. The most important thing is to focus on more than just the problem area. Please, I entreat you, do not simply focus on the circles themselves--don't only apply the concealer there! I start in the lower corner of my eye and work outward and downward (along my nose). For shape think of an elongated arrowhead. And hint: I don't always get the whole of the dark circle--the bit furthest away from my nose I often leave for basic foundation.

Now pat. Below you can see one eye patted in.

Use your ring finger--it is always the finger with the lightest touch. And for the love of all that is good, don't rub. Okay, maybe when the patting is finished rub just a bit--but with great discretion.

The above process is then finished off with foundation all over the rest of the face--and the foundation need not go over the concealer. It can meet the edge of it, but don't pile foundation on top of concealer.

Below begins what I refer to the owl eye brightening process. It is a second way to apply concealer--learned during my short stint as a makeup artist for a cosmetic company. I only use it when I'm in the mood, but I must admit it works quite well. You apply the concealer in small dashes all around the eyes and up over the eyebrows (think owl). Then pat in (again with ring finger). The effect is the brightening of the area all around the eyes. We want to do all we can to avoid applying under-eye concealer to just the under-eye dark circles--if you take anything away from this, take that little nugget of info.

The final step in brightening the eyes--because that's what this is all about, no?--is finding a great eye base for eyeshadow that can be worn alone. A neutral shade that just pops the eyelid is key.

Oftentimes I don't want to leave the house in a full face of makeup so I begin (always, always) with  a moisturizer that has an SPF. From there I put on my under-eye concealer and a bit of mascara and that's all I need.

In this final picture I do have on mascara, concealer, light foundation, a bit of bronzer, and just a swipe of eye-shadow. The result from picture to picture is extremely subtle, but all together it adds up to something that nicely enhances my own brand of natural beauty (Don't believe me? Return now to picture 1 and 2. We're on the same page now? Phew).

Happy concealing (or, well, enhancing, really)!

on beauty

when Reachel first emailed me about this lovely series she posed a question that i loosely translated to what makes you feel beautiful? and then quickly mis-remembered as what make you feel sexiest?

(there's some kind of insight into my core right there).

the question could not have come at a better time. (precisely because i was feeling anything but).

beauty is a funny thing, isn't it? a fickle mistress. what i've come to understand is that feeling you're beautiful and knowing you're beautiful are entirely different things. and i'd take the feeling any day of the week, because the feeling--that inner spark--well, that informs everything.

so i took Reachel's question and i went for a jog (literally). and as my feet pounded away at the pavement, and the hudson river rolled past on my left, i made a list. and that list made one thing very clear: i feel most beautiful when i am most myself (which as it turns out is also when i feel sexiest--for me there is no difference between the two), when i am fully engaged in this chaotic and turbulent and wholly exciting world we live in.

what does that mean?





















well, it means i feel most beautiful when i'm laughing really hard. out loud. and even more so when i'm telling a good joke or a good story--watching the eyes of the people i love crinkle in response to something i've said? heaven. few things trump that.

i feel most beautiful while eating a green apple, after an impossible exercise class, with my hair pulled into a high, messy bun, as i traipse about lower manhattan giving thanks for a body that moves and runs and spins--holy heck is the body a miraculous thing!

or when listening to good music. or waiting for the subway with a good book in hand. reading and understanding and reveling in a poem that three years ago made no sense to me (walt whitman's "song of the open road"). watching the rain move in over chicago as portugal. the man plays "so american". standing arms and mouth open to welcome said rain. imbibing a hot drink on a cold day. a walk through central park on a cool morning. furtively glancing at the guy at the end of the bar and then catching him mid-stare. or a nod from the bass player from that one alaskan band i so love.

doing something, anything, that a year ago i couldn't (or rather, was too afraid) to do. heading into the belly of the beast of fear and coming out the other end makes me feel beautiful in a way that nothing (and i do mean nothing) can touch.

what i look like will change with time. my weight will fluctuate. the lines on my forehead will crease. the gray hairs will take hold and multiply. but my mind, my intelligence, the light behind my eyes--that (God willing) will remain. more than that (again, God willing) it will grow and burgeon. it is my belief that my intelligence and my desire to live life fully--to live imperfectly but honestly, makes me wholly myself.  and the more i can align myself with my value system, the more i balance on the axis of who i am--the more i know what i want and what i believe in, the more beautiful i feel.

and there, on that axis, perched atop it all--balancing on the bounties of this life (both good and bad) well, then, from there, the opinions of others regarding what i look like will matter only with my consent. it will be how i feel from within my body--inside the sweet-spot of life that will dictate my response. i won't need a mirror or a scale or any of the trappings to provide me with what i've somehow always known but often doubted: that i am, in fact, yes, beautiful.

on beauty.

i am so honored to be over here today. talking about beauty. and how it has almost nothing what to do with what i look like and definitely nothing to do with what the scale says or how my thighs do or do not jiggle when i attempt a morning jog (or walk).

i think reachel is glorious. all you have to do is read her about section to know why. and this series? well, if only we could all put down the pages of glossy magazines, cease the comparisons, and hook into what makes us--each, individually--really gorgeous.

there, in the open.

i've not been feeling beautiful.

of late, i've not been feeling beautiful.

it has something to do with an out-of-sorts-in-my-own-skin issue.

you know the feeling, don't you? you must?

you don't? oh, lucky, lucky you.

and beauty is a funny thing--a fickle mistress, if you will. she has little to do with the knowing you're beautiful, and almost everything to do with feeling you are.

because all the evidence in the world could stockpile against you: men staring on the train, lovely guys in your own life who pull you close, push your hair behind your ear.

and objectively you understand. that others perceive you as such. as beautiful. and you're grateful for that. really. you know how lucky you are. but dammit, you just don't feel it. so there exists a discord, a disharmony.

and such is the disharmony that neither ryan gosling or portugal. the man's john gourley (ma {that's "my" with a funny accent} soup du jour) could walk right up, take you in their arms, whisper into your ear that they've never before scooped up a stranger, but they saw you and were overcome.

and it wouldn't make a lick of difference. not a lick.

(okay, well, maybe a lick. i mean, hello. ).

but you know what i mean, don't you? you gain three pounds and suddenly you're bigger than you've ever been (lie! but that's how it feels). and those three pounds signal dull skin and hair in need of a trim and you do all the right things and you take long baths to calm yourself, but you wake morning after morning (for a month, or some brief, but seemingly interminable amount of time) and you think, still? because you know, even before climbing out of bed, you know that you're not yet yourself again. you're you at your worst (lie! lie! but such is the pull of the mind).

last wednesday, was it wednesday? oh heck, it doesn't matter and if it does, well then i'm starting to tell stories like my father and that's the beginning of the end...okay. so. sometime last week i went out with my girlfriend, ashlea, after work. she was meeting up with her lovely boyfriend john and his friends. and i wasn't feeling beautiful and i wasn't dressed appropriately, but heck. that's life. and i know that often to come out of it, you have to head into it, whatever it is. so i waited for ashlea outside the C train at 50th street. i was speaking on the phone when another man approached the station, on his phone, and lingered there for a moment before heading down. 

and now, when i say this man rivaled the ryan gosling, john gourley level of ability-to-raise-my-blood-pressure, you'll have to believe me. his hair was a bit too long, blonde, and curling at the edges. he was like tom brady, but not so pretty. a new york hipster-grunge-tom-brady. oh, that doesn't sound good? oh no. believe me when i say it was. it was. good. 

so there we were, both on our phones, outside of the station. both poised to head downtown. and i gave him the eye. kind of. (usually when i think i've given a guy the eye, they don't get it). but i gave him my-version-of-the-eye and he looked for a minute and then continued on. and i felt really good about it. about the manner and length of his look's reciprocity. 

so as he moved to the steps to head into the mouth of the subway, i turned to give myself a metaphorical pat on the back, and happened to look down.

at my bra.

my exposed bra.

my oh-your-top-button-came-undone-so-your-bra-is-out bra. 

hmph. 

well. that's life. 

and it's worth a good laugh.

and turns out, nothing makes me feel so beautiful as a good laugh, especially when it's at myself. 

(photo credits unknown.

if you do know, pass the info my way.

they are not mine, do not belong to me.)

i feel pretty. oh so pretty.

it happened tonight.

as i was standing on the subway.

shuffling feet, finding a tenuous balance.

matted, greasy hair.

red, blotchy face (post work-out coupled with sudden onset of rosacea).

and i was eating watermelon. it was all over my fingers.

i felt like a mess. in fact i'm quite sure i was a mess.

and just then, as the watermelon juice began to drip down my chin, it happened, i had the thought:

huh, i feel beautiful. in this moment--just now, i feel really, actually, quite beautiful.

and there you have it. and that is life.