After the 2008 election and its discussions of lipstick on various non-human mammals, I would have been happy not to hear anything about this colorful cosmetic again. As it turns out, however, lipstick had just been laying low, saving up for a starring role in my life.
Tuesday mornings I have a babysitter for Gage and Claire is at school, buying me (at $10 an hour, mind you) four glorious hours to myself. Yesterday, I was sitting at the coffee shop, dorking out on Facebook for a few minutes while I warmed up to knock out some Savvy Source posts. I decided that my profile picture needed updating, so I turned on the Mac's Photobooth and took a shot.
Staring at myself in the image, I realized that my natural lip color approximates one shade darker than my skin. Since I'd put my skin color somewhere on the spectrum near baby powder white, that makes my lips barely pink. Barely.
I posted the picture and commented that I needed some lip color. A back-and-forth with Mr. D ensued, with a recommendation that I try red. Since he is a man and does not understand that there are approximately 2,109 shades of red, I modified to "whorish red." (Because if you're going to go with red, you might as well make yourself a harlot, yes?)
Later that evening, Ron was telling me about a conversation he had with a coworker. She happens to be a lesbian. He must have done something prissy -- which is, incidentally, commonplace for Ron, as he is very particular and clean -- when they concluded that he was not, as you might assume, a mere metrosexual. Instead, he was deemed a "lesbian in a man's body."
"So are you a lipstick lesbian?" I asked, curious about this new gender/sexuality assignment, considering this is my HUSBAND, you know.
"I think so," he replied.
"Wait a second. So does that make ME the butch one?"
He shrugged. "I suppose it does."
I don't want to be the butch one. No way. In fact, I'm heading out right now to buy some whorish red lipstick, and I'm planning to wear it ALL. THE. TIME.