In Which I'm Rescued From Embarrassment

My youngest daughter’s looks of pity are hardly disguised. She sighs as if the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders.
“Really, Mom? Is THAT what you’re wearing? It's so EMBARRASSING!”
Her eyebrows furrow and she scampers upstairs to the wooden wardrobe in my bedroom. The lovely closet serves two very distinct purposes: 1.) It holds the extent of my wardrobe – one suitcase full of clothes from Kentucky, and 2.) It provides the perfect Narnian storybook hiding place for the Pea.
On this particular evening, the child flings open the double doors in mock despair. She sorts through the blouses (3), the pants (3) the skirt (1) and the dresses (2). She pulls out the black dress with the green and blue polka-dots. She tosses the newly chosen outfit upon the bed and scurries away.
With slight pause, I change out of my uniform – my favorite chocolate colored cargo pants and my prized bohemian-esque tunic TJ Maxx clearance item circa 1999. (I only hope my friends will recognize me in something else, I skulk.)
I hear activity in the bathroom across the hall. I peak in to say “goodbye.” The Pea continues to organize an impromptu work area. Toothpaste, comb, floss, deodorant (Teen Spirit), hair de-tangler (strawberry scented), mascara, hand soap, baby powder, box o’ makeup, mirror, tissues. Glancing my way, she preempts the objection with an appropriate rebuttal: “I KNOW you need to leave, this will only take a moment.” She ushers me to the salon make-over chair (a.k.a. toilet seat). “Seriously, Mom. You don’t have ANY make-up on. I mean NONE.” (Not entirely correct, I still had the remains of chap stick applied earlier in the afternoon.)
My child, with the dexterity of a magician, proceeds to open the various secret compartments of the (brilliant) Christmas gift from Aunt S.E.M. A make-up box of which you have never seen the likes….rows and rows of eye shadows, blushes, lip-glosses. She rubs my face with a cloth drenched in liquid hand soap. (A wet washcloth would have been lovely, but the soap did maintain a type of adhesive quality on my skin…especially when the powder was applied.) I close my eyes as layer upon layer of shadows are brushed on my lids. I feel eyeshadow rubbed on my forehead, followed by a sticky matter I later identify as toothpaste. A copious amount of blush is applied beside my lips, and I'm asked to open my mouth as a pick containing dental floss is thrust inside. (After gagging profusely, I'm allowed, albeit briefly, to brush my own teeth, floss, and then take my seat once more.) A powder puff flamboyantly distributes baby powder to my cheeks, my neck, and my dress. (I question the latter and am told I need to “sparkle.”) The Little One hands me a mirror to admire her work. I smile gratefully, then shriek as a shower of icy spray hits my back.
“This final touch will make you smell pretty.” Says the Pea as she replaces the strawberry-scented hair detangler back on the vanity.
I make a move to leave, escape the bathroom, sneak down the stairs, grab my purse and my car keys. My youngest beats me to the lower level. “MOM! Don’t forget to Air Kiss!”
Eyebrows raised, I await an explanation. “Seriously, Mom, have you forgotten your basic manners? Were you raised in a barn?”
“When you see Ms. J and Ms. B, you must immediately stop and air kiss both cheeks while holding your keys in one hand.” The Pea demonstrates and then evaluates my feeble effort. “I suppose you’ve forgotten the Pinky Rule too.” (Obviously, it’s been AWHILE since I’ve had dinner out with the Grown-Up Girls.) “Pinky out, Mom. Pinky out like this when you take a drink.”
I consider pointing out the difference between tea party and tapas restaurant, then think better of it. (The Husband: “WHAT? You’re going to a topless restaurant? Me: No Sweetheart, Tapas…tapas…you know, little plates of food. The Silent Husband: No response, zoned out at the mention of tiny servings of food.)
“And remember,” wraps up the Pea, “ALWAYS cross your legs at the ankles and sit waaaay far back in your chair.”
“Are you sure I’m not supposed to sit up straight with good posture?”
“Uh, Mom. HELLO. I think I’m the one with the most manners around here.”
I give the Little One an air kiss – on both cheeks – dangle my keys, pinky out, and reach for the doorknob. I slide my newly made-over strawberry scented, powdered down, tooth-pasted, sticky self out the door. All the while praying fervently for a dark restaurant.
“Don’t stay out too late, Mom. Remember, it’s a school night.”