No More Washing

 
It is but early December and already I’m meditating on New Year’s Resolutions.  I loathe this time of year: the twilight of 3pm; the only interesting emails I receive commence with the phrase “Cyber Monday starts now!”; the perfunctory gatherings of colleagues where I drink too much mulled wine and attempt to extract a few laughs at the expense of my dignity.  I’d just as soon flip the calendar to 2018 and fast forward to the lengthening days, greedily spending my gift cards. This year has been a doozy.  But remember back in 2016, when we were all “this year sucked, let’s get to 2017 already!” and the future was all “lol”?
 
In my younger years, I vowed fun resolutions exclusively, ones I knew I could keep.  Drink More ‘04, for example.  Be more adventurous, year of our lord 2007. But for the past few years, I’ve made the same resolution and it is quite the opposite of fun.  It is the result of a lifetime of immersion in the women’s magazine industrial complex, of reading beauty routine Q and As with Victoria’s Secret Angels about how they maintain their exquisite visages.  They should change their moniker to Victoria’s Secret Liars.  Were they to answer honestly, they would simply say, “It is my lot in life to be beautiful. There is no product available for purchase that could enhance me.  Do not waste your time attempting to glean insight from my genetics. I am a freak.” But no. I’ve somehow ingested hundreds of instances of the top beauty tip: always cleanse your face before bed.  Liars, I’ve been working on it, and yet!  I fail night after night.
 
So, if you’re wondering, Wow, has Liz Greenwood’s New Year’s Resolution been TO WASH HER PERSON, a wish that must be renewed every Jan 1, having failed the previous calendar year, the answer is yes.  If your response to this information is “u nasty,” u correct. I admit this is very gross and somewhat pitiful, like saying this year I vow to change my socks once a week, whether I need it or not.  But facts is facts and washing my face has been a far more difficult brass ring to grasp than more reasonable resolutions like drinking more or saying yes to bad ideas. 
 
I hate washing my face, hate it! Especially in the winter, when my skin is a desiccated husk, and the feeling of tightening pores in the synthetically heated air feels like a vice on my face, and whatever overpriced unguents I apply feel like only a superficial balm to the profound renaissance I require, which would really be tantamount to a plunge in the Amazon or whatever sacred waters you got. To fully sanctify my wizened face, I’d need a skin graft from a newborn, so being taunted to constantly wash it just feels rude.  And boring.  I’m also lazy AF and heading toward bed at 9pm. I will not be hindered by soap. 
 
During my biannual facial I always grovel with the aesthetician, asking her “do I reeeeeeeelly need to wash my face?” I do the same bargaining with my Shambhala teachers when it comes to the Buddhist moratorium on gossip, aka Right Speech: “So I know you say no gossiping, but what if talking about people behind their backs is more of a writerly exercise in characterization?” (Still no, sadly.) I search for any loophole.  Every time I ask the aesthetician about the necessity of washing my face on the regular, she looks at me like pond scum and replies in the affirmative.  The last time I pleaded hoping for a different answer, the face lady threatened me with images of bacteria, a fear mongering tactic to scare me straight.  You think that worked?! Bacteria is good for us!
 
That’s why this week I am recommending: second-day makeup.
 
When I think back to the times in my life I’ve felt most like a hotmaster, I glance nostalgically back to early mornings when have been times where I’ve rolled out of a bed (details vague), still a little buzzed from the night before, and, prior to the hangover kicking in, possessed a Hulk-like strength in the perfect moment of alcohol metabolization.  I’ve wiped the migratory eyeliner from under my eyes, poofed up my hair to maximum Courtney Love ’92, and stepped out into the sun.  The smudgy eyeshadow, the lightly stained lip, the faint sheen of highlighter and blush in their perfect twilight…... People pay professionals to attain this tousled lewk!  I’ll catch my reflection off glass and be like, damn girl.  I see you looking so fly and unbothered. I’ll order a coffee and almond croissant, make a little joke with the barista, toss my hair around and think yes.  I have done right by the angsty adolescent in Worcester.  Namaste, love and light to all beings everywhere.
 
By about noon, the glitter of second-day makeup wears off, reality shifts back to its original scaly shape, the anxiety sets in, and what first looked like the supple skin of a late summer peach now looks more like a Dorito’s bag on subway tracks. But for those few magical hours, me and my second day makeup are living our best lives. 
 
I’m tired of being told to wash my face every day so Glossier or whomever can sell me more bullshit, and it’s a double Ponzi scheme: first you they need to sell you the products to remove the makeup but then oh shit!!!  You need to put your makeup BACK ON because now your face has NO MAKEUP! So then you buy MORE MAKEUP!  And on and on.  I recommend not washing one’s face as both an energy and cost-saving technique.  Stretch out your supply simply by sidestepping the sink and going to sleep. In addition to working as an amateur dermatologist, I’m also a part-time accountant.
 
Gentlemen, if you wear makeup, then please heed my tips.  Second-day makeup knows no binary.  If you are a gentleman who doesn’t wear makeup, then let this serve as a friendly reminder of the economic and psychological tolls of the patriarchy.  I know you’ll say, “Phhhft, come off it, shouty lady, you don’t have to wear make-up.”  1. Yes, I do. Without eyeliner and mascara, I resemble a Chinese boy, and 2. Hi this is a step toward that courageous, fully self-possessed direction.  Hopefully I’ll become exceedingly beautiful or, more likely, no longer give a flying eff in the meantime.  I give fewer effs every passing day, and it’s glorious.  Like the smear of umber eyeshadow on my forehead.
 
So, this year I refuse to subject myself to the totally unnecessary ritual of washing my face.  This year, I will continue to apply my make up every other day, which to me makes sense.  Mercurial by nature, I swear to goddess I function on an on day/off day cycle.  If Monday was a productive feast of writing, exercise, and meaningful social interaction, then I’m stepping out onto the ledge Tuesday.  But, oh, hi, is that you, Wednesday? I’M BACK!  Maybe this is just how I’m built and my beauty anti-regimen should follow suit.  I vow to succumb to my base nature and refuse all manner of cleanser, and revert to more reasonable resolutions, like watching more Bravo, eating for two, spending the savings from my exfoliator budget on candy. 
 
What resolutions-within-reach are you contemplating?