Hindsight Is 20-20

You’d think that nothing could be more pathetic than primping for a welcome-the-new-associates cocktail event sitting at your desk, touching up your makeup using some tissues, cherry chapstick and a hand mirror that’s balanced on top of a bound copy of ’34 Act. You’d be wrong. Because I’m sitting here doing just that and in an attempt to blend the chapstick onto my cheeks more efficiently, I just put on my new glasses—the ones that I only wear “for the computer”—looked into the tiny mirror and reached a new low: I realized for the first time what I actually look like to people with good vision. And it’s a problem.

Seriously, how the hell could I have not known until now that my face is this much of a disaster? First of all, I have what can only be described as some sort of de facto freckle-shadow-moustache hovering above my upper lip. And second of all, there are four or five weird, totally visible little hairs just sitting off to the left of it. And I won’t even begin to get into the nose chap situation or the faint sunsplotch sitting directly in the middle of my forehead that is—not exaggerating—shaped exactly like a sea turtle. What the hell?

OK, well, there’s no way I can go to this cocktail thing looking like this. There’s going to be at least 70 people there, most of them young, sort-of-cute, brand-new baby lawyers eager for a little…mentoring. At the very least, I need to nix the face hairs. There’s a store downstairs in the building lobby that sells your standard-issue array of pork rinds, birthday cards and tampons. Maybe they’ll have tweezers. I head down to the store but there’s no tweezers to be had. They do, however, have something called Neet, which is, according to the bottle, an “instant hair-removal cream perfect for getting rid of unwanted body hair on the go!” (And apparently is more useful to office drones than something as exotic and complicated as tweezers.) This’ll have to do.

I go back to my office, lock the door and spread a layer of “Neet” across my upper lip and the horrible hairs. OK, now we’re cooking with gas. Aside from the fact that this cream smells like the inside of a Peep carcass, I’m back on track. I’m supposed to meet another associate, Pete, in 15 minutes to walk over to the bar, and I only have to leave this crap on my face for 10.

Time’s up and I take a tissue and rub the cream off my face. It still smells but at least the hair is— oh God please no. I’m looking at myself in the hand mirror and the hairs are indeed now gone…and replaced by a moustache-shaped scarlet streak. Oh Jesus Christ, I’ve burned my face. I have burned my damn face with the Neet. I look at the bottle for help—nothing about burn marks, but it does say to not put the cream near your face or genitals. Great. Might’ve been helpful to put that on the FRONT of the bottle, folks.

The phone rings. It’s Pete—am I ready to go? Dammit. I tell him I need 5 more minutes. This is bad. This is so so bad. Granted, the hairs are gone, but I now look some sort of troll who smeared hot-pink eye shadow across its upper lip.

Think fast. OK, I have a mini-fridge under my desk—cold is good for a burn, yeah? I crouch under my desk and stick my head in the fridge, getting my face as close to the freezer part as possible. After kneeling there like a complete jackass for a good minute, it occurs to me that this probably doesn’t work for chemical-type burns. Kill me. WAIT, I have some old undereye concealer that I keep in my desk. That might help. I smear it on the burn, using some chapstick to help blend it because now my face is freezing.

Against my better judgment, I put back on my glasses—the GODDAMN GLASSES that started this mess—and look in the hand mirror. Ah, perfect: I can now confirm that on my one pathetic night out in two months—the one night where I may actually have had a chance to hook up with, or at least flirt with, a semi-cute nonlawyer, my face is sporting a cakey, burnt amber moustache and smells like chemical sugary fart. Awesome.

I meet Pete downstairs and we walk over. I can tell he notices—how could you not?!—but is too nice to say anything. We get to the bar and it’s already full with summers. But is dimly lit, thank Christ. I order a drink from the bartender and one of the new kids sidles up next to me with the same idea. I remember him from the first-year facebook—he’s one of the cute ones. From Stanford I think. Or UCLA. Somewhere in California. Somewhere tan. He turns to me, smiles and introduces himself. I smile back. I can’t fully tell in this light, but I think he’s actually blushing. Aw. I guess maybe I do still have what it takes to make a boy blush. I’m starting to relax.

He touches my arm lightly—ha, nice!—and leans forward. “I don’t want to be whatever or anything, but—” He lowers his voice and leans closer, “I think you have something stuck on your face.”

Yes, yes I do.

And with that, I smile, turn around and leave the bar. To go home. Alone. (What else?) To attend my own personal cocktail event and vow never to wear glasses anywhere near a mirror again.