Sisters

On Sunday, I ran into my preceptor from nursing school, Wanda Grass. At the end of nursing school, they stick you with one nurse in a unit for 3 months and they basically guide you and mentor you and hopefully, at the end of it, drop you out onto the cookie sheet a fully-formed nurse. Wanda was mine. She did a lot for me. She's my age, maybe 60 pounds overweight, fundamentalist and politically conservative. I took one look at her and thought, 'She's going to hate me. Women like this can't stand me.'
I didn't give her enough credit. She guided me every step of the way. She was the most knowledgeable, affirming, kind woman I have ever come across. She drop-kicked me into adulthood, really, resolving issues of self-doubt and esteem I thought were forever lost. I owe a lot to to Wanda. If I'm ever 1/4 of the nurse she is, I'll be happy. She didn't agree or condone any of my political beliefs or way of life, but somehow, she liked me anyways. I love her. We became friends afterwards, even though we're so very different. Everybody needs someone like this: someone who points out your flaws and gives you shelter at the same time. I guess that's what a mother should do.
"You need to wear makeup." Wanda said, without preamble. "You look like hell." Wanda has moved out ot the ER to Stat Nurse--that's a nurse who takes patients to where they need to go--OR, CT, MRI, so the unit nurse can remain with their other patients on the floor.
"No I don't."
"Well, you'd be prettier with makeup. There are doctors around."
"I'm too old for them, and I have a boyfriend."
"Trust me. They're doing all this administrative stuff with you. Put some makeup on."
I put some lipstick on.
"Better?"I ask when I see her later.
"Much better. Here's the name of my foundation. Go get some. Your hair's messy, too."
Wiz hears this, rolls his eyes. "It's better than it used to be."
"I'm wearing it in a braid, now!" I protest. It is much better than it used to be.
"It's all wispy." Wanda says.
Wiz says : "just be happy with the lipstick." Wanda laughs. She has this fresh, generous, unaffected laugh. As if she really does find whatever she's laughing at amusing.
And because it was Wanda, today after my psychiatrist appointment, I find myself in the Merle Norman store handing the clerk a slip of paper with the foundation name on it and asking for help matching it.
I sort of look down on Merle Norman--it seems like hillbilly beauty to me. I was raised on Erno Lazlo and it has served me well, I think. But whatever Wanda suggests, I do. This is an interesting thing about nursing...women like other women in this profession. There's a strong tradition of mentorship and guidance and support. One of my best friends is an actress--was an actress. Now, at 40, she's a voice professor at a midwestern university. A good fate for an aging B movie actress who never quite made it, although she did keep on getting work. She hates younger women. "They're so callow and snotty and self-involved." she tells me. "don't you just hate working with younger women?"
No, actually, I don't. I really like younger women. They're fun and open and remind me not to stop dreaming. Some of them make me want to, to quote Clarissa Pinkola Estes, "put my head between my paws and howl" but I don't find them so bad. I guess I don't feel much resentment towards them because I had as much fun as I think it is probably possible to have when I was young, and I doubt any of them are having a wilder, weirder, more glorious time than I ever did--so I'm cool about them. And I kind of get adopted, like my Nana did. I give good advice and I'm honestly not jealous. I had my time, and I'm still ok. So. There. The kind of relationships nursing engenders between women are the kind that make it possible for Wanda to say--"put some make up on" with the result that instead of being offended, I go straight to the Merle Normal counter on my day off and buy her foundation brand.
The woman behind the counter, as she is putting on my foundation, tells me that she would have an easier time if my skin weren't so rough.
She's trying to sell me exfoliant, of course. But I'm pissed off. What a tactic! There are many things about me that are sub-par in the looks department, but my complexion isn't one of them. I have great skin. My dermatologist once pulled his resident in and said, "look at this skin! This is what skin should be! This is what skin can be!"
"My skin is not rough." I say indignantly.
I look in the mirror and just see shiny, translucent, clear wrinkle-free me. It's the one thing I like about my appearance! How dare she.
She backs down. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess it was just the cotton from the pad."
Damn straight Jeannie.
And I bought the foundation. And it is a hillbilly brand, but it's a very good match--I can't even tell I have it on--and it's not thick or yucky and Jay didn't notice I had makeup on.
Lesson: Know what's weak about you and know what's strong and take help that's offered, but don't let anyone prey upon you. People assume women are vulnerable about their appearance and they will use it to sell you anything. Stick to your guns.
Maybe I'll get a haircut.

That's my 1/2 hour.