Vanity Fairest

Liz is my fabulous friend.

Most people have a fabulous friend — or if they don’t, they should. Nearly all of my Back In The Day When We Were Young And Crazy stories involve Liz. She brings something out in me, although she swears up and down it’s the other way around.

From almost the day we met, Liz was adamant that I was fabulous — far more fabulous than I thought — and that she was fabulous, and that a girl was entitled to be fabulous. A girl ought to be girly, she insisted, and her things ought to be covered in rhinestones and sequins and pink maribou.

This is the girl who was so gobsmacked when she learned I never had a pedicure that she gave me one on the spot, in her mother’s kitchen. This is the girl who taught me all manner of Important Things To Know When You Are In A Relationship, from lingerie to, uhm, personal grooming, to, errrm, technique.

This is the girl that made a girl out of me. And she is the closest thing to an older sister as I’ve ever had.

I have a beautiful memory of Liz and I leaning over the sinks in the community bathroom of her dorm at Brown, sizing ourselves up in the mirror, powdering and plucking and primping, singing along to a certain TLC song — that anthem of Getting Ready To Go Out, played in bedrooms and dorm rooms across the country in the winter of 1999.

Apparently I met Jim from The Office that night, and the princess of some island in the Pacific — both her classmates — but those recollections are hazy at best. But I do remember getting ready. I was happy that night. I wasn’t happy many nights in those days, but I was happy then.

Oh, and there was glitter. Lots of body glitter.

Back then, Liz was also heavily into Mac Cosmetics. Fabulosity was her religion, and damn straight she was prosthelytizing. Liz made it her personal mission to rid my paltry little makeup bag of Cover Girl mascara and those matte brown eyeshadows that come with little sponge applicators. Walgreens makeup, she liked to call it.

So, for my 20th birthday, Liz took me to the suburban mall, parked me on a stool at the Mac counter, and ordered the works. And I went home that afternoon just a little more f*cking fabulous, thankyouverymuch.

Of course, I have proudly (and dutifully) worn the same eyeshadow and lip color ever since. I get a lot of compliments, too, and I have made Patina eyeshadow-users out of many a friend and acquaintance. In fact, it was this summer, at her own wedding, when Liz overheard me recommending my eyeshadow to a wedding guest and immediately flew into a blind rage. Who, she demanded to know, uses the same singular eyeshadow for nearly ten years?! And then, in the words of her new husband: How dare you.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when the entire contents of a Mac store arrived on my doorstep on my birthday last month, courtesy of Her Fabulousness. We’re talking palettes of coordinating eyeshadows, eyeliners, lipstick, lip gloss, and an assortment of brushes I have no idea how to use. And an illustrated sketch of where and for what occasion I should apply each shade.

I have mostly stared at these items for a month, flabbergasted by Liz’s generosity and by her confidence in my ability to pull off more than one shade of eyeshadow on the same lid at the same time.

Finally, I gave it a shot. Abbie was over — we were having one of our Work Dates and were naturally being very busy and important — and we decided to try one of the eyeshadow palettes on her. Even though our coloring is totally different and I’m sure Liz would totally lose it if she witnessed this breach, as would the counter guy with the neon orange eyeshadow and the makeup belt who custom selected these particular shades for me based on the photos Liz brought him.

Apart from Abbie looking only slightly like she could stand to spend 20 minutes with a bag of frozen peas over her eyes — largely a product not of the colors but of my complete ineptitude to select from a variety of brushes or to blend without using my fingers — I think we ended up looking pretty great. Pretty damn fabulous, in fact. Not bad for a pair of girls with crooked faces and upsettingly visible smile lines.

Liz, this is for you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the gift, and more importantly, for that special way you always have of making me feel beautiful, inside and out.

Now I just need you to come home to Chicago so you can show me how to use this stuff.

Afterword: I just learned that the actual lyrics are “all the makeup that man can make.” Dislike.