I Ain't No Tammy Faye

Okay, so flashback two years ago. Charkins and I had just returned from what we affectionately dubbed The C.C. Rainbow Tour, our grueling and sometimes fun but often exhausting trip through Europe (if you aren't musical-movie literate, you probably won't get that we got our trip's funky name from the movie "Evita." Except for the C.C. part, those are just our initials. And the name of the company we had planned on starting. The company that would sell the funky belly rings we designed. And uhhhh, some other stuff. Like, well, ummmmmm, pink stuff. Maybe some yellow and purple stuff too. It's not too hard to figure out why our company C.C. -which used hearts instead of periods in between the initials, very clever, we know - never got off the ground). Anyhow, so yes, two years ago Charkins and I went traveling in Europe.

We left Canada at the end of January during a cold spell that was so frigid that with the wind chill, temperatures reached -40 degrees Celsius. We arrived in London, England to temperatures not that different. However, because we were planning on staying abroad for five months, we knew that we had to pack for both hot and cold weather.

So where am I going with this? Namely, that Charkins and I packed A LOT of shit into our REI rolling backpacks (BTW, if I have ever made a genius purchase in my life of many, many, MANY purchases, it was that backpack. Luckily, Charkins and I refused to listen to my brothers and instead listened to our lazy selves and bought the backpacks with wheels with the option to transfer into a pack (which we did all of twice) (wheels, we thank thee) (metros throughout Europe, we despise you) (oh, and ALL MEN IN EUROPE, WE ARE YOUR SWORN ENEMIES. HOW ABOUT HELPING TWO GIRLS WITH THEIR GODDAMN BAGS DOWN THE FLIGHT OF A ZILLION STAIRS, HMMM? MAYBE? WE WOULD HAVE SAID THANK YOU IN OUR CUTE CANADIAN ACCENTS. GOD, YOU EUROPEAN MEN SUCK. GIVE ME A HOCKEY LOVING CANADIAN REDNECK WHO HELPS GIRLS WITH BAGS ANY FUCKING DAY)).

***whew***

Right. Back to the story (again). So, Charkins. Me. Europe. Heavy, packed bags. But the difference between Charkins' and my bag was that while my bag contained about 50 pounds of makeup and 2 pounds of clothes, Char's backpack held 2 pounds of her own makeup AND clothes, and 50 pounds of my clothes and miscellaneous shared things (awwww, Charry! Remember our little hot water heater? The one we bought in, was it Malaga? And then it didn't work in half of the outlets in Europe? And I had a hissy fit in Florence over it? Good times, babe, good times!). See, I packed a ton of shit. Which isn't all that surprising if you know me. I mean, I've been moving back to Crannie for a good few weeks now and I STILL haven't transferred all of my stuff over. Anyhow, half of the stuff I brought to Europe was "pretty" but unecessary stuff - perfume (????), makeup, more makeup, oodles of tampons, and makeup. Oh, and black high heels. And nylons. And maybe a bit more makeup. And even some back-up makeup. Plus, hair products. Lots and lots of hair products, and maybe I even stopped to buy some more in Madrid because I was scared I'd run out.

But here's what's ironic. For the first half of the trip, I actually used all of this shit (well, except the black high heels, which I used exactly one time on Valentine's Day in Seville when Char and I got wonderfully drunk off some delicious sangria and went to a flamenco performance all gussied up). Each day, even if we had a goddamn train to catch, Char and I BOTH would dutifully shower, do our hair, put on makeup, including MASCARA AND EYE SHADOW, and then put on the same sweatpant outfit that hadn't been washed in roughly 19 days.

Looking back now, and even gazing through my pictures, I'm all, "WTF? Who? Why? And most importantly, how?" Like, why did we go through this process of beautifying ourselves each and every day when we knew no one and were completely anonymous? And besides, didn't we realize that once we put on our grungy, dirty clothes everyone thought we smelled and looked hideous anyways? And lastly, how in God's name did we even muster up the energy to do it every day? Like, trust me when I say that Europe was exhausting. Seriously, it is absolutely draining to take an eight hour bus ride with weird, bizarre people through a snow storm and arrive in another city in the pouring rain where you don't speak the language on a Friday night of a busy long weekend and when one of you is already prejudiced against this city and oh my God all the hostels and hotels are full and we are going to have to sleep INSIDE our backpacks on the street corner but that is not an option because OUR BAGS WEIGH TEN BILLION POUNDS SINCE THEY ARE FULL OF THE MAKEUP THAT WE CAREFULLY APPLIED THIS MORNING!

So it just blows my mind that we did this each and every day. And I have proof! Pictures! With us wearing eye shadow! EYE SHADOW! Now, to be fair, it was clear from the get go that everyone in Spain hated us. HATED. US. In one restaurant the waiter asked me if I would like jam with my toast. To which I quickly replied, "OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU. I'LL HAVE YOUR BABIES JUST BRING ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM." To which he promptly served me a slice of toast. Aaaaand some uncooked thinly sliced Ham. So the fact that Charkins and I tried to look presentable and pretty each and every day was just our way of trying to get those fucking Spaniards to like us.*

*Note: It did not work. They hated us. Despised us. And got back at us through their food. And their complete insolence in refusing to understand any word we said, whether it be in English or Spanish. But we hated them too. Which is why when any one says a derogatory thing about the French and their supposed arrogance, I just sniff and say, "Well, you OBVIOUSLY haven't traveled to Spain, you ignorant fool."

But part of me isn't all that shocked that Charkins and I applied full-on makeup each day. I mean, if you had looked at my previous track record in university, you would have seen this coming. While everyone else in my English classes at McGill showed up to class looking like they just rolled out of bed, I would always arrive with makeup. ALWAYS. Even if I had been up all night studying for a final. Never did I wear sweat pants to class. EVER. And rarely did I even wear my glasses. So it's not that surprising that Char and I tried to carry on this same allegiance to looking "presentable" while we were in a land of mean strangers.

But finally our senses kicked in, or maybe it was just the exhaustion of it all. Or maybe it was because things soon became hopeless - we were gaining weight (which to this day, I still don't understand how. I mean, granted we were eating about 4 pounds of chocolate per day EACH and our diet did consist 99.9% of white bread and cheese with maybe a yogurt thrown in when we were feeling a little flush in the wallet. But still, the stress people! And the dragging of HEAVY bags! And the tantrums! And the touring, oh God the touring of all those ruins and churches and wow, let's just go back to our hotel room and sleep because this is boring, no? All of this should have combated what we ate. But no, instead we got fat). Plus, our skin was a mess (I guess I should count myself lucky. Stress gives some people cancer; isntead, it just gives me the skin of a 14 year old). And my hair had lost any of the shiny brunette luster it had once possessed and was now the colour of "meh" with highlights of "ugh." So by the time we made it to Greece, we had lost the will to make ourselves pretty. By the time we arrived in Italy, we had lost the will to barely cleanse ourselves (and let me tell you, this was an ENORMOUS feat for me to convince Charkins that she wouldn't spontaneously combust if she didn't shower twice a day). And by the time my mother and Grams flew in and met us in Germany, well, let's just say that when they pranced around in NEW CLEAN TRAVELING CLOTHES AND FULL-ON MAKEUP, it made our eyes twitch.

However, once back from Europe, after I shed the weight and redyed my hair blonde (which, OH GOD, is life ever better as a blonde, baby!) and bought some new summer dresses, I was feeling back to normal and going back to my makeup every day habit. Because when you look coiffed, you feel good.

Which is perhaps one of the reasons that I have been so depressed since January. Because people? I just don't care anymore. I've gained weight. Don't lie, I know I have. I have cellulite now. Trust me on this. But the biggest thing is? I wear mascara maybe twice, tops THREE, times a week now. Seriously. My glasses are my closest friend. And as for dressing myself, I don't even care! Like, I will wear anything to avoid having to wear something that requires me shaving my legs. When did I get this lazy and apathetic? And more, importantly, how did I get like this? The answer is: I don't know (although I think being stuck in two useless lame-ass jobs where no one even notices you while doing long-distance with the boyfriend has something to do with it). All I know is that those extra 15 minutes of sleep in the morning make this no makeup/no contacts/hair in pony tail/wear what's ever on the floor/shower twice a week thing TOTALLY worth it.

Well, it does when I'm able to shake the feeling that I look like an ugly used up whore.