My eyelashes and other shortcomings

I spend an unusual amount of time thinking about eyelashes. This is a fairly new development, considering I used to think about eyelashes strictly in a making-a-wish-and-blowing-it-away context. I’m Jewish and superstitious, sue me. Now, I think about eyelashes, and the inadequacy of my own, on a regular basis. My summer in Los Angeles quickly exposed me to the fact that my human-length eyelashes were blatantly below average next to the whiskers that flutter out of the fairer, Southern Californian eyelids. These eyelashes can protect even the most sensitive eyes from desert sandstorms, I’m sure of it.

The life and maintenance of these eyelashes requires a separate checking account. The down payment is about 300 dollars, which is nothing compared to the three hours it takes to individually glue the camel whiskers to your individual human hairs, which you surely despise. A biweekly rent payment of 60 dollars (excluding gratuity to your aesthetician, obviously) is due to re-glue the eyelashes that have fallen out because, guess what, you’re still a human being that sheds hair. It’s unclear if fallen eyelash extensions cash in for wishes. I will investigate, and probably wish for girthier eye hairs.

The point — and there is a point — is that I made 11 dollars an hour sorting mail this summer. Thus, I did not get eyelash extensions, although I cannot help but think that, had my eyelashes been a couple centimeters longer, more men would have bought me the astronomically priced Los Angeles cocktails that I couldn’t afford. Economically speaking, eyelashes would have been an investment.

I blame my eyelashes for loneliness and allergies. If this one thing was different about me, I think, life would be better. My phone knows this, because it listens to my darkest thoughts and desires, and slyly places a Glossier ad for their Lash Stick on my Instagram feed. The ad promises long, lush lashes that look as if they were genetically programmed to be just so. Full disclosure: Glossier could package rat poison in a baby pink bottle and I would gladly pay upward of 20 bucks for it.

So, I stand in line for 30 minutes to spend my hard-earned paycheck in the Glossier store on Melrose. I get the Lash Stick and the Cherry Lip Tint that makes my lips look flushed and virginal and will thwart the impending thoughts of lip injections for at least a little while longer.

However, I hate cherry flavored anything because it tastes like chewable Tylenol. I decide to wash down the unbearable taste of my lips with a large iced almond milk matcha latte, unsweetened. I have just spent $7.50 on green tea, which I firmly believe is just badly flavored water. I drink it anyway because Gwyneth Paltrow swears by it and I secretly think she is magic.

Gwyneth also swears by CBD oil. CBD oil comes from cannabis, and it will not make you high. But, if you infuse CBD oil into Icelandic fairytale water, it will replace your medically diagnosed anxiety with eternal bliss and an eligible bachelor. Or something like that.

Regardless, I drink the matcha and hope for supple cuticles and brighter eye whites. Along with my stumpy eyelashes, I learned that the whites of my eyes are unacceptably off-white, eggshell at best. An “influencer” tells me that superfoods like chia seeds and matcha and goji berries will strip my eye whites of any unwanted pigments, and so I go to Whole Foods. I suddenly have a deep, unhindered desire for my eye whites to look like effin’ porcelain.

I go to hot yoga, even though I’ve fainted in a hot yoga class before. One minute I’m doing a sun salutation and the next I’m waking up on my back to a room full of yogis whose Zen I have totally botched. But I know that I have toxins, and they need to be sweated out. I brave the torture workout sauna chamber once again.

The yoga instructor has just come back from a detox in Ibiza. No sugar, no alcohol, no dairy, no meat. I think this is no fun. The mind gives up way before the body, she tells the yogis. So don’t take any water breaks during the flow.

It takes me 20 minutes to drive the two miles from the yoga studio to my apartment. I listen to “Pete Davidson” on Ariana Grande’s new album and go into a mild depression thinking about Cazzie David, Pete Davidson’s ex. This is something that upsets me more than eyelashes.


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