A Chance Excounter

Never walk out of the house looking anything but incredible.

I read that tidbit of advice recently but I can’t for the life of me remember where, and this lack of attention that I dedicate to everything in life, including reading, bit me in the ass this weekend when I ran into my ex–and did not look incredible.

Running into an ex–or someone who otherwise would have been an ex if your relationship spanned more than two days–is never fun unless you happen to not be wearing contacts, and are therefore unaware of the encounter in the first instance.  That happened to me once, and was followed by a barrage of bitchy texts because “I wasn’t wearing my contacts and didn’t see you” happened to be an excuse this particular ex has heard before.  More than once.  That was unfortunate, as was the fact that I was wearing my contacts this time around.

Ignorance = Bliss = Underrated

It’s hard to look incredible all the time, and anyone who tells you differently is delusional, rich, or both.  I’ve always aspired to be delusional and rich, but only one of those is panning out and without the other it’s not a desirable combination.  That being said, it is easy to look not like total shit all the time, which is a truth I understand much better now than I did 48 hours ago.  Hindsight is 20-20, especially when your contacts are in. But fool me once, shame on me you.  Fool me twice, shame on my natural beauty, or lack thereof.  I’ll have you know that the couch happens to be unkind to your skin and hair, especially when you’ve spent 32 out of 48 hours on it.  I realize that paints a rather slothish picture of my weekend, but when you’ve spent the better part of two years partying like it’s 1999, sometimes you need a weekend of lying horizontal and very, very still.  Plus, there was that entire piglet I took down for Thanksgiving … that didn’t help.

But I vow to not be fooled again, assuming there is an again which there always is.  I have come to terms with the fact that there are two things that are inevitable in life: hangovers and excounters.  Death and taxes ain’t got nothin’ on those.  And given the karma coming my way, I’m destined to a particular layer of hell on earth reserved for repeat encounters with ex-boyfriends who would love to see my ovaries hanging from a Christmas tree.  Maybe not their Christmas tree, but certainly a Christmas tree.  (I’ve never formally dated a Jewish man, but I’m sure there are a few out there who would accept my misfortune as a Hanukkah gift.)

An obvious option, as I see it, is to not leave the house, but my house is not a bar, so clearly that won’t work.  A second option is to just be better looking.  This, too, is not
a valid option–if it were, I would imagine Carrot Top would look much different.  So, the fall back is to invest in makeup to do the job for me, although there is more to it than that, because I have a collection of random makeup dating from as far back as 1995
that I clearly don’t know how to use.  Or I would, theoretically.  I’ve given
makeup a good college try and can say with confidence that I have mastered the
consummately-surprised-raccoon-with-clown-paint look.  I can’t say it’s a great look, although if I were to have an excounter while donning it, I probably would be unrecognizable, which is something.  Definitely something.

So, in the spirit of practice makes perfect–and whatever I’ll make on my face in between–I am committing to never leaving the house without looking incredible; if I don’t look incredible, I’m not leaving the house.  Starting tomorrow, today is clearly a wash.

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