Lately I’ve become fascinated by ‘Get Ready With Me’ videos on You Tube: you know, the ones where we see the vlogger wake up (with perfectly coiffed hair!) in a pristine white bed (with unwrinkled sheets!) and make their way to an amazing dressing table, where they proceed to prettily apply their makeup (without making Awkward Mascara Faces!) and get ready for their eminently Instagram-able day?
Er, needless to say, my ‘Get Ready With Me’ wouldn’t really look like that. I started to think about what it WOULD look like on Saturday night, as I prepared to head out to a party our friends were throwing: I’m not a vlogger, obviously, and if I’d tried to take photos I’d probably STILL be getting ready now, but here’s what MY ‘get ready with me’ would look like…
Consult Facebook for start time time of party. It’s between 7:30 – 8pm. Work out that if we leave at around 7:15, we’ll arrive somewhere in beween those two times, thus achieving a nice compromise between Terry’s desperate desire to always be the first to arrive, and my horror of arriving early. (This fear stems almost entirely from that one time we arrived at a party SO early our hosts were still getting dressed. Terry likes to be prompt, though, and by “prompt” he means, “We’ll get there the day before and wait outside the house until we see signs of life…”)
Shower and put my hair in velcro rollers. Feel slightly smug about how well-prepared I am. OK, I still have to put on makeup and change out of the loungewear I threw on when I got up, but I have AGES before I need to do that, and until then I can kick back, relax, and bask in the knowledge that for once in my life, I will NOT be rushing out of the house while zipping up my dress with one hand and applying lipstick with the other. Smug!
OK, I can totally do this: I mean, I have 25 minutes, and I’ve done my makeup in 10 before, so this situation is TOTALLY under control, seriously.
Now would be a good time to try out that eyeliner tutorial I was watching on You Tube this morning.
Nope, that didn’t work. Let’s rub it all off and start again.
That didn’t work either. Take it from the top, people!
I HATE EYELINER. Seriously, why is something I do every damn day suddenly SO hard?
Eyes are now bright red from all the rubbing-off and re-applying of liner. It’s too late to do anything about it, though, so I’ll just layer on mascara and hope it disguises it a bit.
A bit more mascara.
God, the lighting in this room is really bad. Is it just me, or do I look like I’m not wearing any mascara? Bit more for luck.
Almost done: just have to apply lipstick, by attempting to imagine what my top lip would look like if I actually had one, and then drawing on a set of lips.
OK, so now I’ve demonstrated what a CLOWN would look like in lipstick, let’s try it again, only with normal lips, m’kay?
GOD, I hate my lips. WHY DO I NOT HAVE A TOP LIP?
That’ll have to do. Let’s just hope the lighting in our friends’ house is just as dim as it is in this stupid bathroom. Now: to the dressing room!
OMG, the light in this room is SO HARSH. I look like I’ve been attacked by a Clown Gang, who have held me down and tried to make me one of THEM. I wonder if I have time to remove it all and start again?
I totally don’t have time to remove it all and start again.
Dressed! Luckily the outfit I put together in my head while in the shower earlier has turned out to look more or less as I hoped it would. This almost NEVER happens: maybe my luck is finally turning?
Terry has just walked past and said that my eyeliner looks “nice”. I wonder what he meant by that? Is he being sarcastic? Because he’s never mentioned my eyeliner in his LIFE before: I must look even MORE like Amy Winehouse than I thought I did? I wonder if I have time to re-do it?
Still, at least I had the foresight to do my hair earlier this afternoon: now all I have to do is quickly remove the rollers, revealling big, bouncy hair!
OMG, my hair is ENORMOUS. I look like a news anchor from the 1980s. This is supposed to be a casual get-together, and now I’m going to turn up looking like I’ve spent two days locked in a beauty parlour. In 1985. Or whenever it was that people still used the phrase “beauty parlour”.
I should totally write a blog post about this! I’ll just pretend I can’t see Terry glaring me and jingling his car keys, while I quickly write that down…
Terry has got into the car and started the engine. It’s killing him to think he might arrive on time, rather than 20 minutes early. I MUST leave now.
Wait! I’m not wearing any jewellery! This top really needs a small, delicate necklace to set it off properly. I’ll just get one out of my jewellery box.
All of the necklaces in my jewellery box are twisted into a giant ball, despite the fact that I hung them all carefully on the little hooks provided for that very purpose. HOW DOES IT HAPPEN?!
Put on the only necklace I can untangle. It’s much too long. Nothing I can do about it now, though, so quick check to see if I can work out what I’ve forgotten to put into my bag:
Lipstick, so I can pretend I’m going to freshen it up as soon as it starts to wear off in the centre, even although I know I won’t actually bother, and will return home with my lips outlined in red and totally bare in the middle? Also check. Just need my coat…
Catch sight of myself in the mirrored door while removing my coat from the wardrobe. I hate this outfit. Also, my hair is still so big I’m wondering how I’ll get it into the car.
Open front door. Almost blown backwards by giant gust of gale-force wind. Hair is in knots by the time I make it the few steps the car. So THAT’S how I’ll get it inside!
In car. Drag brush through the tangled mess that is now my hair while Terry turns the heaters up to full blast, so we don’t freeze to death en route.
“Full blast” = “pointing directly at my head, and blowing with a wind strength of approximately 100mph”. Hair ruined. Again.
We’ve reached the outskirts of the village! We’re finally on our way! Nothing can stop us now!
Well, nothing except the realisation that we’ve left the drinks we were bringing to the party sitting on the kitchen table, anyway. Turn back.
Back at house. Quickly check reflection in rear-view mirror while Terry collects the drinks. Hair is now flatter than the very flattest of flat pancakes, while eyeliner looks like it was applied by a small child, wielding a blunt crayon.
Drop off Rubin with my parents, who will be dog-sitting for the night. I’m pretty sure they were looking at my eyeliner funny. I really hope everyone’s drunk by the time we arrive.
Terry informs me he doesn’t actually remember the address we’re going to. Neither do I. Magical Mystery Tour!
Arrive at what we think is the right house. I hide around the corner while Terry goes to the door. Too late, it occurs to me that if it IS the wrong house, Terry will probably go in anyway, and party with whoever happens to live there. The trials of being married to an extrovert…
It’s the right house! And we’re on time, even although Terry secretly thinks we should have been here three hours ago! Success!
Totally the first people to arrive: Terry wins.
Arrive back home. Lipstick is forming a bright red circle around my mouth, and I’m missing a button, but I DID have fun: and that’s what matters, right?
(Before anyone starts to work out the inconsistencies in my timeline: all timings are approximate. Terry would’ve divorced me if I’d kept stopping to make a note of the time every couple of minutes…)