Flaky-Mascara-Face-Wiping //

I hate runny mascara. Oh, or flaky mascara! That is the worst. I am a mascara junkie. I have a billion tubes of it so when my go-to runs out, I just throw on some older mascara so that I'm never without. (I'm sure beauty bloggers everywhere are cringing...and probably some normal people too, cause I'm kinda grossed out just by typing "throw on some older mascara" Oh well, we can't all be GLAMOROUS) 

I also have a pet peeve of people touching my face. I get it from my dad. My dad was the most playful, fun-loving guy, but when we would be playing or wrestling, I knew that if I touched his face, it was game over. Weird, right? (Okay, that also sounds weirder now that I put it in writing. Wow, this post is not doing anything for my public image...) 

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Lucky for me, I married a man who also hates flaky mascara but does not care that I hate when people touch my face so when he sees my mascara flaking, he takes him big, manly hands that have Lord knows what on them and will swipe away that black dot on my cheek. And it makes my insides curl up inside and die every single time. First, don't you understand that I barely understand what highlighter is so I took 25 minutes to just slab some on and hope I look like Kim Kardashian and the fact that I am wearing makeup today is an accomplishment so DON'T MESS IT UP and 2. How many times have I told you that I hate my face being touched? 

That could turn into a rant worthy of its own post but before the point is lost on us all, I had a flaky-mascara-face-wiping moment last week at my counselor's office. (Not a literal one. A metaphorical one. This may have not been the best metaphor...) 

We were sitting at our usual appointment and we were just discussing the rush of the holidays and how it has impacted our relationship and our personal lives. Easy stuff in the realm of our counseling history. Plus, the holidays treated us well. I wasn't looking for anything deep. When all of the sudden, my darling husband brings up the fact that I've been having panic attacks lately. The ugly ones. Again. Wasn't really looking to get into my late night cry seshs tonight, but okay, B, thanks. 

No matter how quiet and cold I come off, my husband and my counselor have a secret magical ability to push all the write buttons to unlock the code that gets me to talk about the stuff that I just don't feel like talking about right now. And before you know it, I'm telling him about how the anxiety is coming back but I don't know why, cause all things consider, everything is good. Life is good. Well, except for the fact that yeah, the anxiety has come back in spurts. I explain how I feel so confident at work and then I come home and I melt into a puddle on the floor, wondering why I feel like I'm having a mid-life crisis at 24. 

I explain how I have a hard time relaxing, putting down work. How so many life changes lately has left my head spinning and my heart lonely. How I watch my amazing people doing amazing things at their amazing jobs with their amazing lives and following their amazing callings and I'm just here, debating whether to finally do the dishes for the first time this week or watch one more episode of The Office. How if it isn't for my husband or my job or my friends, it probably isn't happening. 

And the next thing that he tells me is the flaky-mascara-face-wipe moment. Cause it doesn't feel good and makes me really uncomfortable but I know it's for my best and he doesn't want me walking around with emotional flaky mascara. But it's something to the effect of maybe I lost myself a little. Maybe I find my identity in my relationships and my career but where is the fun? The hobbies? The things I do just because they make me feel alive? I tell him that it feels silly, that I save all the fun stuff for date night or so I have something to do with friends cause I'm introverted and sometimes need a little something to sweeten the pot to get me out of the house. 

He challenged me to be creative. To do the things I used to do. Like play guitar and sew and create and paint and write and photograph and explore. He challenges me to find rhythms that interrupt the anxiety. To everyday take a moment to pause before coming home. To identify the lies that I believe. Basically, look in the mirror and wipe the flaky mascara off yourself, why don't ya?