My Latest Score: The Bobbi Brown Makeup Brush.
I recently read a rave review of Bobbi Brown’s makeup brush collection, especially her full coverage / face touch up brush ($39), which is designed for foundation application, but which I intend to use primarily for concealer (I’m currently using this) since I never wear foundation. People say it blends product like a finger but without absorbing all the product! I also really want this accompanying brush, but…one thing at a time.
You’re Sooooo Popular: The Softest Baby Blanket.
The most popular items on Le Blog this week:
+Chic, bow-bedecked dress for fall. (Thanksgiving dinner dress?!?)
+Super cute dress from Loft of all places!
+These wallet-friendly pumps are ready to PARTAYYYY.
+I live in these. Perfect with jeans and mocs.
#Turbothot: This Is 33.
In my 20s, I believed my 30s were a safe and comfortable harbor just around the corner. I was convinced that if I could just get to my mid-30s, I’d be settled. I’d have it all figured out in my 30s. I’d be an adult in my 30s, I thought–someone who owned real estate, and was tenured in her career, and knew the difference between different vineyards in the Loire Valley, and booked vacation homes at the beach with her family, and knew her accountant, Ed, on a first-name basis, and could make meaningful contributions to conversations about global warming. But with multiple career transitions over the past few years, a move East imminent, the sale of our home, and the perennial feeling of novitiate-ness that comes with being a new parent, I feel like I’m back where I was in my 20s: still reimagining myself, still refashioning myself, still learning and trying and failing and figuring it all out, and sometimes it still feels as though the earth is moving beneath my feet and I can’t get a solid purchase on it. While walking Tilly the other day, I caught myself thinking: “It’s OK, I’ll have it all down in my early 40s.” It struck me that maybe, just maybe, I’ll never have it all down pat, and that this is it. This is what it means to be a 30-year-old. I’m not in the antechamber — I’m in the main space. I’m not waiting in the wings, stage right — I’m already well into the second act. This is it: this is what it means to be a 33-year-old, and it’s not nearly as streamlined and tidy as I’d imagined, but this is it.
As I mulled this over, I found myself thinking about a lot of my girlfriends — about how so many of them are in similar states of transition, of beginning again, of renewal–and, truth be told, of failure and closed doors and endings. I have friends in the midst of ending long-term relationships, of changing career paths, of starting on IVF, of having their first or last babies, of preparing for their weddings, of deciding whether or not to return to work after becoming a mother, of deciding if and when to have a first or second or third child. So, I know this much: I’m not alone in wading through the messiness of my 30s.
On the other hand, my 30s have brought with them a sense of confidence, of comfort in my own skin. I know myself. I know what I like and what I don’t and I’m not interested in keeping up with the Joneses. I lean on my strengths and accommodate my weaknesses. I can’t wear shift dresses without looking like a child wearing a potato sack; I have a long forehead; I don’t care for my knees; my teeth are crooked. These are things I have come to accept and brush off thoughtlessly. “Oh, no, I can’t wear that,” I say, shruggingly, to the salesclerk at Intermix trying her hardest to get me to try on a boxy shift from Carven. I also have great lashes, a tiny waist, and can tan pretty easily. Setting physical attributes aside, I just know myself. I know how to coordinate things to minimize stress, and which situations to avoid, and that I need to make my bed every morning and clean the house before leaving on a trip and apologize before going to sleep or else it will drive me crazy. I know how to get the emotional support I need from my husband, my family, my friends, and I know how to return the favor. I find myself increasingly at ease in social situations, even among strangers who are cooler or smarter or better appointed or savvier than I: this is it, this is me, this is all she wrote, I shrug. And it’s pretty damn good, I might add.
And maybe that’s what really matters, anyway — who cares if the “trappings” of a “settled life” aren’t in order, so long as I feel good and solid to my core?
So tell me, my fellow thirty-somethings — does this resonate with you?
#Shopaholic: The White Bow Blouse
+Repeat with me: I do not need another white blouse. I do not need another white blouse. I do not….but THIS.
+Love this sweater dress.
+Dying over this fur collar.
+Speaking of red (I’m super into red this season!) — love this blouse.
+Thanks to my reader who pointed me in the direction of these precious corduroy bubbles for minimagpie!
+This book looks deliciously trashy.