I went
on a date with an older gentleman in a seemingly trendy Midtown restaurant of his
choice. About halfway through, I remember thinking mid conversation that
while I wasn’t really enjoying myself, I wasn’t deathly bored either. The
wine was bland and we ordered too much food. He kept trying to stroke my neck,
and while some people find that endearing or affectionate, it’s just one of
those things that I just cannot stand. It was shaping up to be an all
right date, and I was genuinely okay with that. A meh date, if you will.
After checking my messages during a trip to the restroom (we all do that, right?), I searched my little quilted purse for my lipstick of the night, Tom Ford's Casablanca. I couldn't find it and I was wholly upset. I returned to my date with gently furrowed brows, and when asked if I was all right, I said, "I lost my lipstick." His face was awash with a slight amusement, so I responded, "It was a $50 tube of lipstick." And there it was: his face transformed from a visage of slight amusement to one of slight judgment. I probably shouldn't have said that, to be honest. Who spends $50 on lipstick? I do, apparently, and I've done so multiple times. Unapologetically? Most of the time.
For the first few years of my lipstick-wearing life, I only donned the brightest red lipstick. As I got older, I realized that sometimes, maybe a red is just too much. Coupled with my chronic resting bitch face, a red lip could even be too intimidating. For life events when a red lip can be too whatever--a job interview, a first date, a dramatic smokey eye (yes, that's an event in itself)--I reach for Casablanca. Nudes wash me out and pinks generally don't agree with me. Casablanca's a dark rose color, a bit of a mauve, actually. Not exactly the whole "my lips but better" madness, but it's just an extremely flattering color that still manages to brighten my complexion. Donning Casablanca makes me look alive, just like a red lip, but without the too much factor. The frustration I felt upon losing Casablanca was genuine, you see.
Prerequisite first date judging-action aside, the date continued. We ate more, drank more, talked more, and I may have even laughed a bit. He kept trying to stroke my neck, which drove me nuts. We kissed, and admittedly, it was great. I arrived home, found Casablanca, and it was fantastic! The most emotion I felt all night was when I found Casablanca, not when I was being kissed or complimented by my date. I'm fully aware of how shameful a human being that must make me, but I cannot seem to find it in me to care, really. I stopped taking his calls and I stopped responding to his text messages. I never saw the kind, yet dull gentleman again. I never let Casablanca out of my sight, and it's been a fantastic adventure ever since.
