I wasn't feeling particularly glamorous this morning. In fact, I was feeling washed out, a bit frizzy and frumpish. 'I know what will solve this problem', I thought. I reached into the depths of my make up bag (comprising: offcasts from my mother circa 1987, some crappy mascara and pharmacy specials) and pulled out Boots' finest red lipstick. I plastered it on, thought "self, problem solved!" and headed for the door.
My husband looked at me a little oddly, but recovered to smile and said "You've made an effort today". He gently reached up and thumb-smeared the corner of my mouth to remove some excess outside the lip line. He walked with me to work and even held my hand for a bit.
I reached work. ('Love is A Battlefield', 8am at the cafe today.) Got in the elevator. There's a mirror in the elevator, unsteamed and under fluorescent light. I look like Chuckles the Fucking Clown, guys. It's not good.