Things my husband should never know…

My mother is beautiful. Oh, yes, inside she’s beautiful – kind, generous, all of that. The kind of mom that makes you chocolate chip cookies just because when you’re little. The kind of grandma who has infinite time to spend with grand kids, coloring for hours and patiently watching the Disney Channel. But she’s also physically beautiful. Short and petite, a fashionista of the first rank during her day, still immaculately groomed at all times. In the 1960s, when Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra was so popular, she copied the look to great effect. In fact, she looked just like the beautiful Liz Taylor.

So, of course, lucky me? I look just like my dad. A little more like if Johnny Cash and John Wayne had an offspring together and a little less Liz.

To be completely honest with you, dear reader, as I make my mad dash toward middle age, I find I am not doing it gracefully. I fret, I dye, I tease, I wax, I work out, I eat rabbit food. And I still look increasingly like someone’s Great-Aunt Myrtle. Gee, thanks, Dad!

The maintenance is absolutely astounding. Can I get a “Hell, yeah?” from my sisters? Not quite so old that sky-high stilettos have stopped calling to me from the shops (yeah, I’m talking to you, my beautiful patent-leather Kate Spades, you just wait until the after-Christmas sale, darlings) but I’m not so young that I can just forget to work out for a week, or God forbid, skip a month coloring my hair. I look at peers such as Jennifer Aniston or Victoria Beckham and wonder, how do they look so good?

Oh, yeah, right. They get paid to look that good. And have a team. But I would bet my next pedicure on the fact that even with the aforementioned team, they are appalled at the maintence required as they progress to middle age. And I guarantee that they are not interested in letting their partners know exactly what it takes to get them red-carpet ready. Hell, I don’t want the Man of the House to know exactly what it takes to get me…er…Red Lobster and a movie ready. So, here it is ladies, the things our husbands really do NOT need to know. Because seriously, even after nearly 20 years of marriage, the truth behind the maintenance just spoils the fantasy. Or what little fantasy is left.

1. Lotions and Potions. Let’s start with the basics, in case any gentlemen are reading. No darlings, we were not born with silky-smooth skin. That 15 minutes your wife spends in the bathroom, post-shower? She’s slathering on half a bottle of the latest in a line of disappointing gels, creams and lotions that promise to make her skin as soft as a baby’s butt. She’ll try another one next month when this one proves to be just as useless as the last two dozen she’s attempted.

2. Waxing. After a few years of marriage, your husband knows and complains during your wintertime “Sasquatch months” sans-razor or waxing, but it does take some time to maintain our legs. I’m trying to visualize my husband, in attendance as I receive my “spring cleaning” of leg and bikini waxes. He’s frankly a little horrified at the aggression with which I push back my cuticles, so I’m not sure he would actually survive such a violent appointment with me. I am quite certain it would ruin any future movies he may watch with hot-wax sex scenes for him. Not that we can manage to wrest the telly away from the kids and the drone of the Disney Channel, but, hey a girl can dream about watching rated-R movies with her husband, right?

3. Layers and layers. I carry this clunky Laura Mercier compact with heavy-coverage powder in my handbag and there is a twin in my makeup drawer. I have a sneaking suspicion that’s all he thinks there is to the process. Well, I have adult acne (dammit!) so he is aware of the miracle of concealer. But, I’m not sure he realizes the extent to which the war paint goes. First, of course, the face primer to keep those pores unclogged. Next, a mattifier to reduce that nasty shine. Now, a tinted primer in light green to reduce redness. Then eyelid primer. NOW I’m ready to start with foundation, concealer and loose powder. That’s all before I start on any color – i.e. eyes, cheeks and lips. He’s generally in-and-out of the master bathroom while I’m getting ready, so he misses most of the process. I’m glad. I’m especially glad he has no idea how much all of this crap costs.

4. No, that’s to clean my face with, it’s not a vibrator. Speaking of costs, how much I paid for my Clarisonic is on a need-to-know basis. And the Man of the House does not. need. to. know. However, if I get one more joke, smirk or sophomoric giggle about the little buzzing sound it makes as I desperately try to eradicate the zits before the wrinkles set in while taking a shower, I might just have to tell him. (Although I do fear it might be the last thing I ever say to him.)

5. Nose hair exists. Sorry. Gross topic, eh? Well, we all have to take care of this little matter. And while the Man of the House has no problem whipping out his little grooming tool (which, now that I think of it, buzzes quite loudly itself) and letting me see him, er, trim things. Personally, I like to keep this process a mystery.

6. My workouts. I’m not athletic. I’m not even that coordinated. When I workout, I look a bit like a drunken ostrich doing a mating dance on hot lava. It’s not pretty. To be perfectly truthful, I cover the mirrors in our bedroom and I even lock the cat and dog out when it’s that time of the day. I swear the cat was laughing last time he caught a glimpse. As far as the Man of the House goes, he can just appreciate the fact that I no longer weigh more than he does. Without getting a visual.

7. And lastly, SPANX. Sadly, the cover-up about these fat and jiggle cover-uppers is over at our humble home. The more fat you try to squeeze into Spanx the harder it is, and dear friends, I admit I needed help so I could get into a dress a full size smaller than was I. Nothing is more humiliating than having the love of your life yanking and pulling the stretchy stuff to its limits before helping you shoehorn into a dress and then attempt to zip it for you. And he had the fortitude to kiss me on the forehead and tell me how much he loved me, afterwards.

So, perhaps, ladies, I am wrong. Perhaps if he can create a wife-sized, human sausage with Spanx and still love the squished creature within, he can handle the truth of the rest of it.

And maybe he can’t. But, I think I’d still like to keep the mystery. As long as I can manage to hold “Great-Aunt Myrtle” off for just a few years more.


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