night lights.

Night Lights

Getting Out the Door

Getting Out the Door he first and most compelling dilemma that haunts me each and every time is the obvious one: Should I go with the black pants and jacket, or try something else for once in my life? This agonizing decision should ideally be allowed to stew for hours, but I am in a mad rush as always, having cut the time necessary to prepare myself to go out into the cruel and assessing world way too close. I have only 20 minutes in which to construct a suitable self-presentation -- which would be fine, if I really were the strong-minded, barefaced

type, taking a radical stand against the patriarchal gaze that would reduce women to arm candy. And part of me is, of course, but more in theory than in practice. The other part of me identifies with Leslie Caron as Gigi sitting in front of a curtained vanity table, singing, "Say a prayer for me tonight," pinning her fate on the night ahead. Here I stand, then, in my underlit, seriously hot bathroom, a towel draped over my hastily shampooed hair and tucked behind my ears, channeling my inner Way Bandy as I squint into the mirror. (I have never sprung for one of those hypermagnified lit-up makeup mirrors that allows you to gaze upon every errant pore and stray hair in the utter conviction that I would never leave my house if I availed myself of this tool.) In the background, my favorite prehistoric CD, After the Gold Rush, is on, and Neil Young wails mournfully away. Sweating lightly, I slap on foundation, followed by one of those skin-illuminating products that produces no effect I can see, then vigorously rub in some blusher and line my eyes. Finally comes the triumphant moment in which I get to wield that instrument of gentle torture I've been working on perfecting for years -- the eyelash curler. I squeeze down hard, and when my unluxurious lashes are curled as far as they will ...