The Quest for the Perfect Berry-colored Lipstick

Many years ago, I was given a tube of lipstick by my mother. I wore it sparingly. The color was perfect for me and I never sought a new one for years. All I needed, whenever I wanted to wear more than just a little makeup, was that berry-colored lipstick.

But alas, all things must come to an end, and my berry-colored lipstick got lost when I moved back from Japan. I never wrote down the reference, so I’ve been looking for that stupid color ever since. I’m not great at distinguishing hues, so based on a few old pictures where I’m wearing it, I’ve collected several tubes of lipstick from different brands that are exactly the same color—the wrong color.

It’s funny to be so obsessed over something that I don’t use so often. Maybe I’m not looking for an old color but for an old self. Ah, who am I kidding, trying to sound all nostalgic. My current self is fabulous, and I just want to play with colors on my face. I cannot, for the life of me, make this sound deeper than it is.

So let’s take this lament for what it’s really worth: trying to find excuses to wear more makeup. It could be fun, so why not. Besides, I have a whole lot of it to use up, and I shouldn’t let it go to waste.


Un retour

Long silence.

I’m reading a book that’s making me nervous because it had so many bad reviews but I still felt the inexplicable urge to buy it. Now I’m loving it but at the same time I’m fearing the arrival of the moment I’ve been warned about by countless strangers—the moment when the book becomes as annoying and fake and unreadable as they say. But no, not yet, not at all.

So yeah, I’m back in long form. Or at least I hope I am. I’ve spent months and months and months believing I have nothing to say, convinced that nothing ever happens in my life. I’m back here because I got tired of watching people’s carefully curated lives, endless strands of thirty-something-year-old smug glamour I just cannot identify with. I’d been so enthralled by this world of instant gratification that I neglected one of my all-time favorite pastimes: reading books. It’s important to say “books” after “reading” because nowadays it’s easy to spend your whole day reading clickbait and tweets and Facebook posts. But it’s sort of like stuffing yourself with junk food and then feeling like crap and wondering why because you thought you were satisfying your hunger but of course there was nothing nutritious in all those mouthfuls of sugar-salt-and-oil and if you go on like that you are going to end up really sick. So I feel like I’ve stuffed my brain with junk information for far too long and I can’t take it anymore.

In light of this problem, it becomes obvious that books are sure more fulfilling than pictures of dinner parties and clever little puns.

(By the way, progress in reading books is beautiful, isn’t it? Watching the bookmark bite further into the pages. I like to stop reading for a while and just observe the thickness of the pages I’ve already left behind. )

The other reason that was keeping me away from here was the fear of sounding too boastful and becoming like all those people out there whose edited lives are made to be the stuff of envy. Which is stupid, now that think about it, as I’ve just said that I felt nothing ever happened to me. So what the hell would I be boasting about. Anyway, I was scared of becoming another pile of clickable Internet crap on top of the mountains upon mountains of crap that are already out there. But then again, am I promoting this content? Am I looking after clicks and views and likes and soaring statistics? Of course not. After all, I’m pretty much the only person who reads this.

Perhaps acknowledging my disinterest in improving my social life has influenced my decision to return to blogging and books. I’ve never been popular and never will be. People who meet me once seldom wish to meet me twice. That makes for a lot of free time. So, once again, here I am.