(And this post counts for Saturday.)
After my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day today at work I was weary that I would accidentally get mind numbingly drunk before seven. Now, before you start having an internal dialogue about how I self medicate and don’t realize my own problems I’d like to be very clear that I am very–painfully in fact– aware of my problems. I don’t have a drinking problem, I have a dealing with other people problem. It’s their fault, not mine.
Good news was that I had standing plans with one of my very favorite people and my goes-with-out-saying favorite person. Drinks–sans men parts, and maybe even some dinner. I agreed to have a cocktail with the coworkers after work to kill some time before meeting my friends. (Much to the dismay/disappointment/judgment of others, I have moral objections to crossing work and pleasure too much. I love the folks I work with, but for some reason I’ve always felt really strongly about it… ) I had an Allagash White on draft and it was super tasty.
I was trying really, really hard to shake the crushing pressure of my day, but I was having a very hard time. (If you don’t live in Boston, or watch the national weather, it’s raining again here. That may not matter to you, but you should know that we’re all about a quarter inch from some sort of Heaven’s Gate shit.) I couldn’t bring myself to trek across town in the horrifying weather so I decided to take the commuter rail to my hood (it’s free if they don’t catch you) and then walk to The Butcher Shop for drinks.
Well, it was during the train ride that I caught a gander in a reflective train surface and realized that in the course of my bad day, which included crying so hard I actually got the hiccups, I had also managed to run makeup all the way down my face. Couple that with the rain and I looked like I was vying for the lead in a community theater revival of Fatal Attraction. I decided that I would run into Neiman Marcus before going to dinner and beg someone to make me look better. If possible, I’d do it without having to buy something I didn’t need.
I should mention I had about ten minutes. One zero. Ten.
And I ask the one makeup artist in the whole world who has one arm. As in, she was missing the other one. Since birth, actually, as I found out after my ten minutes was up and we were still on my foundational coat.
Don’t misunderstand me; she was extraordinary, but really, what are the chances? I then proceeded to make the mistake of asking her about her arm and learned, over the course of forty-five or so minutes, about her life, her attempt at a prosthetic, overcoming the misconceptions of others, and her ultimate decision to give her prosthetic to a vet who could appreciate it. An incredible story, yes, but I could not believe that I was going to have to explain to my friends that I was late because of a one armed makeup artist.
If you’re wondering how I didn’t notice the absence of arm before asking for assistance, you should know that she had perfected the art of leaning on her stub against surfaces in a way that prevented the brain from registering the lack of… arm.