Ahhh, dear Eyelash Curler. You represent so much of the person I often wish I was. The person who knows how to be trendy, who understands how to do her nails, who showers every day even with a young kiddo.

But instead, you remind me of the person I actually am. The one who spent hours as a teenager reading Seventeen Magazine, learning the best way to use a crimper in her hair, and yet could never manage a look any more sophisticated than a mix between Chewbacca and Cindy Lauper on Celebrity Apprentice. The girl who understood intellectually how to fold up her trouser legs and match layers of neon socks in the perfect way to complement her jelly bracelets, and yet could never manage anything beyond a walking frumpy cotton candy machine explosion.

Ah, eyelash curler. I loved you for the simple elegance you promised. Spend a moment in the morning, and you would be set for the day. Maybe apply a lashing of mascara, and boom, done. Just like Gwyneth Paltrow advised.

But I could never figure out your physics. How am I supposed to hold you without poking out my eye? And I can’t wear mascara without it clumping, or even worse, getting underneath my eyes, making the tired bags underneath them look overstuffed.

No, lovely green eyelash curler, I’m afraid you have to go. Even though I love what you represent, even though I love the person I think I would be if I used you, I love the present me even more, and I don’t like the way you make me feel bad about myself. Like I’m incompetent and bumbling. I love who I am enough to separate the me I am from this fantasy me who would use you.

So, green eyelash curler, into the bin you go.


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