The Middle School Monologues: MASCARA EMERGENCY

She sort of stumble-steps into the room. Mouth slightly ajar. Jaw lax, but still connected. If this were a movie or high-end cable television, this is the body language and facial expression that suggests that a character, key to the plot, has been stabbed or shot in the next room.

“Honey? Are you okay?” I ask as if talking her in from the ledge.

“Can you get my mascara from the car?” she asks. Nobody has died and nobody has been taken.

“The car is in the driveway. It’s about ten steps beyond that door. You can get it yourself.” The look of an impending brain aneurysm does not leave her face.

“But, I don’t have shoes on.”

“Well we’re leaving in ten minutes, so you will need shoes very soon. You should probably prioritize. First, solve that shoe problem. Then you can tackle the massacre dilemma.”

Five minutes later, one shoes has made it on. Apparently, the right shoe is a bit trickier. She looks up, helpless, as if her last wish on this earth must be granted so that she may go gently into that good night.

“Please get my mascara,” she quietly pleads.

“No, it’s not important.” Snap! The trance is broken. With those words blood, boiling blood at that, has returned to her face.

“It IS important!” I have used the good make-up’s name in vain and probably need to be stoned. But, I cannot go without making my point.

“No. It is NOT important. Never in the history of human breath has a doctor yelled, “He’s bleeding out! Dammit, where is that mascara I ordered?!” Her eyes roll deep into her skull. I press on. “Never has an historical account ended with the words, “ And at long last, a week’s supply of mascara finally arrived and the war was won.”

“Fine. I’ll get it myself,” she says in that air of annoyance most twelve and thirteen year olds have mastered, but she is still a shoe short of a full load so she must hear my rant’s finale.

“Now. Now, let’s break down the painfully unimportant world of mascara. If we were to rank mascara needs in order of importance, I would guess maybe models getting paid to work would be high on the list. Someone getting ready for an important job interview might be up there. Someone who is seriously ill and is trying to look a little healthier for visitors would rank pretty high, I’m guessing. So even in the wasteland that is the world of mascara, your mascara needs don’t even register. Insanely unimportant. Really, nonexistent. I can only think of one thing more unimportant that the mascara needs of a twelve year old. Do you want to know what it is?” Her eyes roll back into her head repeatedly like the wheels in a slot machine.

“No,” she says flatly.

“See, I think you do. I think you’re at least a little bit curious.”

“I’m not.” I dangle the keys just out of reach. “Fine,” she surrenders. “What?” I clear my throat for effect.

“The only thing less important than the mascara needs of a twelve year old is the mascara needs of an eleven year old.” I pause. Her eyes have rolled so far back in her head; it is possible that Bayou Voodoo is involved somehow. I need to say something to wrap it up. “Thus ends the lesson,” I say in a tone that conveys victory.

She snatches the keys from my hands and stomps out. Really, she is only half-stomping, as that second trickier shoe has not been fully secured onto the back of her heel. My mascara rant has put us behind schedule just a bit, but it had to happen. And, I am counting it as a victory. Sure. The eye rolls made me question my self worth a few times, but I trudged onward. It’s a small victory. There have been many battles to date. Many more to follow. But vigilance is key. I must maintain my place as a worthy foe so that we may come out stronger and still intact on that grand day when puberty’s wicked grip safely returns the child I raised back to me. Until then, let the ranting and eye rolling march on.

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