The Summer I Stopped Caring

You know it's going to be a good day when one of your best friends at work sends you this totally not offensive gchat immediately upon laying eyes on you:

Kristin:  You have a vampire vibe going on, it's both hot and intimidating. The Russian gymnasts all wore red eye makep one night last week.

And then, while ranting about how one of the Glamazons you work with stole your favorite pen, the same friend responds with this:

Kristin:  Just look at her blank faced with your vampire eyes and say "give me my pen."

Here's a pictorial of what prompted this outburst:

I promise it looked way worse in person.

Yeah, that would be another example of my immune system’s constant war against itself. Or, in this case, against my mascara.

In general, I'm the type of woman who puts just-enough effort into her everyday appearance. I shower regularly, try to tame my very wavy hair in some kind of passable style, wear basic makeup to work every day, avoid mixing black and navy and make sure that I have heels sticking out of my bag so that my fellow commuters know I am not completely fashion inept.

Despite these precautions, the Summer of 2012 will go down as, "The Summer I Stopped Caring."

Let's examine, shall we?

My faithful friend the Chi died back in April. Obviously, I took to Amazon in hopes of finding a new one for under $100. When this didn't happen, I assessed the situation objectively and realized, "My hair stays flat for two nanoseconds in the summer anyway," and therefore decided to hold off until the fall. Save for one blast of the roots after a mid-day spin class last week, nary a whisp of ionized heat has touched this mane in almost four months. You’d think this would be a good thing, but it’s not. Sure, my hair is shinier and softer and stuff, but I also spend half my time sporting a Bride of Frankenstein-meets-Hermione Granger vibe.

That's hot.

Moving on, allow me to discuss a predicament currently marring my existence: water weight gain. I know this is a problem for many women, and that I have a slight propensity for hyperbole, but I don't think I'm overstepping my bounds when I say that I bloat worse than anyone else I've ever met. We're talking "gained 10lbs in two days after eating a normal-sized portion of Easter ham" -style damage. If one more of my friends whines about how her pants feel moderately tight after chowing on a teryaki SmartOne the day before her period, I am going to flip my shit. For some perspective, the elasticized jeggings I shimmied my ass into this morning are a full two sizes larger than the Express jeans I wore to work on Friday -- and they are currently cutting me in half. If water weight gain were an Olympic sport, I could give Michael Phelps a run for his money. My solution to this problem has been an abundance of billowy skirts with elastic waists, leggings and an unfortunate amount of Andrew's clothing re-purposed to suit my feminine needs. Basically, I look like I clothe myself at the corner of Homeless Bum Drive and Destitute Vagrant Boulevard.

Don't even get me started on the state of my feet. Cute summer pedicures serve no purpose when your toes are perma-cased in an elastic sock that looks like you stole it from grandma's closet and grimy, four-year-old gym sneakers. The only reason I even took the time to slap a half-hearted coat of bright blue polish on my toes is because my physical therapist is forced to get all up close and personal with my metatarsals on a regular basis, and I know if I spent my entire day with other people's feet in my face, I'd prefer not to analyze the state of their fungus.(For the record, I do not have foot fungus, but I assume someone at PT does. And now I am more thankful than ever that I watch the interns Windex every bed when someone leaves).

All of this would be enough to send my self-esteem down the gutter, but now the ol' Vain Girl Gods have gone and taken my makeup from me. I managed to convince a doctor to prescribe me a steroid cream for my case of Flagrant Volturi Eyetis, which (thankfully) made the red dragon eyes go away. I then proceeded to ring up a smal fortune at Sephora replacing all of my hip, air-brush perfect eye makeup with the same safe, hypoallergenic brand I've been using since I was a teenager, and I had no problems using that over the weekend when I was only seen by people who have to love me anyway. Of course, after coming back in to work on Tuesday, fresh-faced as a Clinique commercial, my eyes started to water and burn after two hours at my desk. FOR THE LOVE OF MASCARA, CAN'T A GIRL CATCH A BREAK?!

All of this leads me to my current state, a true culmination of The Summer I Stopped Caring. Ridiculous topknot hair? Check. Unadorned face? Check. The kind of skinny jeans that makes passerby on the bus shake their heads and murmur, "oh, honey, no"? Check. Heinous footwear? Check.

Everyone and their mother seems to have taken off for vacation in August, so thankfully, no one has been around town to comment on my lack of grooming. I figure I have another month or so before someone bombards Stacy and Clinton with secret footage of me. In the meantime, I'll just be over here, continuing my quest to eradicate over-priced yoga pants one pair of Target crops at a time.