On Red Lips

For years, I wished I could wear lipstick.

Corals, oranges, reds, pinks.

I was attracted to all those colors.  

I saw models wearing them in magazines and on TV and I liked it.

I saw people on the street walking by with colored lips and I liked it.

Sometimes I would go to MAC

with this image in my head.

I would find the lipstick I wanted to try.

I'd put it on.

In my head I'd still see the model's face

Or the girl on the street.

So when I saw myself in the mirror,

it wasn't the image I was expecting.

The lipstick was so bright.

It drew so much attention to my face.

It made me embarrassed.

I felt uncomfortable.

I liked the lipstick, but I didn't like the idea of people looking at  me.

What if people thought I looked ugly?

What if I looked like a clown?

What if...
What if...

I couldn't do it.

For years, I wished I could wear lipstick.

I got older.

My skin changed.

I developed the dark shadows of melasma on my face.

Lipstick was out.

I didn't want anyone to see me.

I didn't want them to see my flaws.

I got even older.

I had a baby.

Now I was a mother.

Lipstick is for young people, I thought.

 Not middle-agey ladies with babies and melasma.

Deep down I still wished.  

I turned 35.

I had had enough.

I'm not old, I told myself.

I feel young.

I'm tired of feeling afraid

of what

my husband

my friends

neighbors

strangers

other moms

bloggers

might think.

I want to feel good.

I want to keep taking chances.

I want to express myself

Even if that means I look different.

Or even if no one else likes how it looks.

I went to the store and found the lipstick.

I tried it on.

It was so bright.

So bold.

I felt afraid.

But I bought it.

I wore it.

I waited for people to stare.

To laugh.

To roll their eyes.

I noticed no one did.

When I felt self-conscious,

I just smiled as big as I could.

Don't smiles make everything better?

I thought so.

The weeks rolled on.

I kept wearing the lipstick.

I kept lightening my hair.

I wrote about faith and God.

I challenged my fears.

I did the things others said they didn't like for me.

They were the things I wanted to do.

I am 35.

Too old to be afraid.

Too young to give up.

A mother.

A wife.

A friend.

A stranger.

A daughter.

A sister.

Who wears red lipstick

and  doesn't just wish anymore.