I usually wear mascara, every day.
On special occasions I line my eyelid, too,
Pulling the lid taut with my finger,
Drawing across my lashes.
Today, though, preparing for church,
I left the dark mascara in its neon bottle,
The liner I left on the shelf,
And I went to church un-decorated,
My eyes looking as they do–small, uneven, natural.
I did this, and justified it mentally
By thinking that I similarly do not
Confess behind a screen since:
I figure God that knows what I look like.
Yet I’m expected, culturally,
To present myself a certain way.
I should have bigger eyes.
I should have thicker lashes.
But, I don’t.
I biked today, fourteen miles,
And ran another three after that,
Training my legs and lungs and mind
For a triathlon.
Afterwards, I stood in my shower,
Gingerly brushing my tired eyes,
Until I remembered that I wore no make-up,
And then I rubbed them vigorously, as they wanted.
I like to dress up.
I enjoy having my hair done,
Wearing hose and heels,
Dabbing fresh fragrance on my wrists.
Yet, there’s something to be said
About the days without pretense,
Where I turn my face towards adventure,
With no guise blocking my view.