With a negligent tap of my pinky finger, I give the word processor permission to open. The negligence lies with the fact that my hand cups a green compact with powder that is the shade of my skin—Creamy Natural 220, according to Covergirl. Underneath the sad excuse for a blending pad the center of the tray is empty, but that doesn’t concern me. I’ve already put on the skin of my face.

Putting on my face, that’s what I call it. I shout it down the hallway at home before I go out to work—“Hold on, I’m putting on my face!”

I tell my friends that I am doing it to get ready before we go out—“I have to put my face on, but I’ll be ready when you get here.”

First is that powdered foundation, Creamy Natural 220 says Covergirl. It covers up the red splotches and slightly masks over the freckles, although I dearly love my freckles. Then comes the liquid foundation, Light Beige/Nude #3 says Maybelline. Just a dot over each eyelid, that’s shadow insurance. Blend, blend, and blend, until there is no way you can tell you’ve put it on. Then I can decide on what color I will bathe on my eyes, because if the foundation is my skin, the shadow will be the vessels through which I see.

Today, I didn’t have the luxury of getting awake early enough to put my face on before I came to school. I have stayed up late to spend my time with my sweetie, Alton Brown of Good Eats, a man who has taught me how to cook while appealing to my inner nerd, all without ever meeting me. Because of this, I rushed out of the door with only my pink makeup bag shoved in my purse, and in that makeup bag I have only one palette of eye shadow—Revlon ColorStay 07 Spring Moss, it says on the back. My eyes will be as green as the Irish countryside.

Dark green lid, copper color crease, and I’m all backwards and don’t care. Then there’s eyeliner and mascara to be had. My usually stubby lashes are painted a sultry black, elongated, thickened. The lashes of a movie star, maybe? Probably not, but the thought is fun to entertain. A pencil of black eyeliner is brought across the lip of my bottom lid, and suddenly the entire mess is defined. A mystery chap stick missing its label goes across my lips, and I pull back to see if anything has come of my effort.

There is still a mystery stain on my shirt, my hair is still a fading, hot mess, I have forgotten earrings, and my cardigan is drooping and seated incorrectly on my shoulders, but I have put my face on, and ach du lieber, if it isn’t prettier and more put together than what I wake up to.