The packing continues. So, today I tackle the messy makeup drawer. Aghast, I am. Does any grandmother type need eighteen tubes of lipstick, six unused eyebrow pencils, four finger nail files? Most lipsticks were free gifts, I rationalize. Only two are my super favorites: icey reds with a hint of pink.
Then I came to the mascara and eyeshadow side of the draw. Oh my. Most mascara tubes had dried up and the eleven eyeshadows were mostly all the same shades - tan, cream, greenish and brown, more of my favorites. I must secretly think that if I apply them right, I will resemble the Joli-Pitt group. I certainly don't need the jet black eye pencils, lest I want to look like rocker boy, Adam Lambert.
I shall edit my makeup, I say to myself quietly. "Lean and Mean", that's the new mindset I adopt. I like the lean part, not sure about the mean bit. Out with dark eye pencils, out with the coral and lame lipstick shades. Like one newly reborn, I took up my staff of "less is more" and revamped my unmanageable makeup drawer. With the rights and and grit of a strict editor, I scooped up the lipstick tubes and tossed them into a box I aptly named - My Murdered Darlings.
Then I saunter over to my "personal" shelves that are stacked with eighteen undies, six bras (one strapless that hadn't been worn in years) along with my soft summer socks and toiletries. Another jolt shot through me as I counted the lotion bottles, mostly scented with lavender, some, tender rose. No, it can't be! Ten bottles. Then I remember that most were bequeathed to me from a friend who had been ill. "I know you love lavender, so I want you to inherit my body lotions, I may not need them where I'm going" she said with a quirky smile.
Tears smeared away by the back of my sweaty palm, I calmed down by letting the knot in my stomach dissolve with a big swig of diet Seven Up. I gave myself permission to stretch out across my chaise and there I lay for a moment. "I wonder if there are nice chaises like this in heaven?" I say to my golden friend, Hobbs. He looks up at me and licks my dangling hand.
Vertical again, I carefully emptied the creamy lotion into one big bottle and felt better about missing old friends and making new ones. Certainly heaven is closer to me than the newborn unit at the hospital- way closer.
So, I treasure my minutes (yucky as they might be at times), my bent on legacy, grace and outrageous loving.
Okay, I'm off my lucious chaise and hardy soap box- "I am woman, hear me roar" - and back to the land of lipstick and the lessons learned there. Finally, my box named "murdered darlings" bulged with lipsticks and nail files, eye pencils and stretched out bras.
Feeling a bit smug, I opened the closet door to find more ridiculous excess. Like most normal grandmother types, I have a slim section, a mid-size section, and one saved for those days after a meal of margaritas and munchies, enchilladas and quesso.
Still there's no reason to have six white linen shirts, eight pairs of flip flops (remember when we called them thongs?) and a bevvy of run down sandals. With vengeance, I grabbed up shoes and shirts, out-styled skirts and old tacky sweats and pushed them into a thirty gallon trash bag. The bag was already half full from cleaning out the linen closet and the under-the-bed landfill.
The long shadows of the afternoon lingered for a time, reminding me that time and love and lean living were all important to my soul. I walked to the edge of the sofa where the forty-two cartons of photo albums stood. I ran my hand across them and thought, "take my undies and starched white shirts, take my favorite lipsticks, but just don't consider stealing my memories, lest you be strangled by a grateful grandmother of eight.
