On chol hamoed Pesach I had to run to the store for some more fruit for second days. Since this was to be a rather short outing, I grumbled to myself as I applied abbreviated Face; tinted moisturizer dusted with some mineral makeup, mascara, blush, mineral concealer on my dark circles, and a swipe of lipstick. It took five minutes, but I still felt as though it was a waste of good cosmetics.
My household always conferred a reverence to chol hamoed, scorning denim for dressy wool in honor of the holiday. Sighing as I selected a pair of ballet flats over comfy sneakers, I marched out all bedecked, feeling a tad ridiculous considering the swiftness of my errand.
Standing in line waiting to pay, with three boxes of newly-reduced Kerestirer matzah teetering on one arm as I clutched a bunch of grapes and a cantaloupe with the other, I gawped at the woman ahead of of me.
She wasn't young, maybe even over 70. Her Face was brilliantly applied, not too much, not too little; her neat wig was topped with a crisp straw fedora; her skirt was of the well-fitting pencil variety; on her feet were a pair of 2" pumps that could pass for Chanel. The epitome of elegance.
I so want to be her.
We exchanged pleasant smiles once I dragged my jaw back upwards, and I hungrily took in her pristine appearance for as long as possible.
I take that back. It can never hurt to dress up.