So, everyone is vain. But I am REALLY. VAIN. Vainer than the average bear. Vainer than many people would expect, particularly the Viking, who has to put up with this nonsense.
It's probably the ballet. Being instructed - no, actually expected - to stare at yourself in front of full-length mirrors four hours and hours on end will do that to a chick. And it's an art that is all about a never ending quest effortless perfectionism (which is why the quest is never-ending, because there is no such thing as perfect, bitches).
But the nit-pickiness of ballet has always bled into other aspects of my vanity. For example, most people notice that I never leave the house without red lipstick. I could be keeling over from the flu, but if someone finds my lifeless body, I will have a little color on my face. And I have really thick, dark eyebrows that need a lot of love and shaping, so yes, I often shut my door at work and to pluck my brows when no one's looking. Which is how I arrived to obsess about....
The line. It's a frown line. Smack in the middle of my head, right between my eyebrows. A deep crease that I am sure is the vestige of four years of non-stop crying and stressed out brow-furrowing and fertility hand-wringing.
The baby weight of 53 weeks of pregnancy is starting to come off. But this line is taunting me. I really wish I could be stoic about it, and proudly wear it as a survivor of all of this fucked-upedness.
But, as we established, I am stupidly vain for a forty-two year old.
So guess who just spent an hour of her life she will never get back researching over-the-counter wrinkle fillers. Gah. Welcome to middle-age.