I rarely go to the mall anymore. I don’t have time, and let’s be honest: it’s annoying. It’s crowded and loud and it’s virtually impossible to walk past one of those pretzel places without stopping and inhaling 800 calories’ worth of buttery, warm, soft bread and gooey faux cheese. But, desperate times call for desperate measures: my inability to locate satisfactory gray jeans online made me do it. (I don’t care how many points they’ll give you at Nordies, I am physically unable to pay $200 for jeans. JEANS, people. Who wears jeans anymore anyway? I only have them because I need an intermediary for casual Fridays, because leggings won’t fly.)
Like moths to a flame, my estrogen-powered GPS delivers me to Sephora with nary a conscious thought. Naturally, they don’t have the one single item I want to swatch, Nars blush in Dolce Vita. There is a sad empty spot where the tester was, and no product in stock. Bastards! Derailed, I find myself swatching $35 tinted lip balm and getting flustered over which shade to get because every single one is so perfect. I am also juggling two bottles of nail polish and am on the precipice of needing a basket, which I try to avoid because that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Because I’ve scrubbed my dirty little hand with makeup remover to get rid of all traces of blush, foundation, and other shit I’d slapped on it, I need to find a sunscreen tester to reapply before the drive home. (Yes, I am THAT obsessed.) I stumble across some testers on a lonely end cap at the very back of the store, but am immediately distracted by this magic spray, Supergoop Defense Refresh Setting Mist SPF 50. Sets your makeup? Matte finish? SPF-motherfucking-50?? I basically drop everything, shake the hell out of the bottle, and spray. Perhaps I am mislead by the word “mist”, but it feels like someone nailed me in the forehead with a spray bottle of water on full blast, like you’d do to reprimand a cat who’s trying to eat your houseplant. Flustered, my hand-eye coordination, whose baseline is special-needs 12-year old, goes all to hell as I deliver the next blast with my eyes half open. Holy SHIT!!! Who needs pepper spray when you have this!? Now I am blind and unable to examine the effects of what felt like a 6-inch soaking wet patch right on my forehead. This, of course, is the precise time a Sephora employee first approaches me, even though I’ve already been fucking around for twenty minutes in the store. NO-I-DON’T-NEED-ANY-HELP-THANK-YOU. I stumble to a mirror and am surprised that I look (relatively) normal. A little
greasy dewy maybe, but that’s not unexpected by noon. Certainly not matte.
I take this minor trauma as a sign that my time in public is up for the day and get the eff out without further incident (impressive, considering the checkout line and general state of confusion of the lone employee behind the counter). (Side note, am I the only one that gets all judgy about other people’s points? I hear said confused employee go to the customer ahead of me, Well, look at that! You’ve got THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY POINTS! What sample would you like today? and I’m mentally scoffing Three sixty? Pfffft. Okay, lightweight, outta the way already.) (I was really, really thirsty, like hangry but thirsty, and my eyes were all burnt up, so cut me some slack.)
By the time I get home, I am all tuckered out from road rage, so I have some soup and take a nap. Many hours later it occurs to me that I should check on the status of the Supergoop. Look at this! The little makeup I’d put on this morning is still there (except for the brows, but they’re usually the first casualties) and somehow I look really dewy, and NOT greasy! Hashtag no filter/nap hair, ya’ll! Maybe I need to get this death spray after all.