Compliment or Insult?

I don’t consider myself to be a high maintenance gal.  Not even close.  But I will admit that there have only been a handful of days in my life that I’ve not worn any makeup at all.  Well, at least since I turned 13, anyway.  I don’t wear a lot and I don’t follow trends or change my color palette with the seasons or match my eye color to my clothes or anything drastic like that.  But, I do usually try to take care of my skin and appear presentable.

I’ve never felt like I’ve had to put a face on in my life!  But, I’ve always wanted to.  For me.  Everybody thought I was crazy when, soon after giving birth to both of my children, I got up out of the hospital bed, washed my face, and put my very minimal amount of cover, color, and mascara on, just so I’d feel better.  And you know what, I did.  I always feel better when my freckles are slightly covered and my eyelashes are actually visible after a few coats of mascara.  All you gals with extremely light colored eyelashes can empathize with my plight.  Besides chapstick, mascara would be my must have item on a desert island.

So, anyway, Mountain Man and I were talking the other day, and I didn’t have any makeup on.  I think we were swimming or I was laying in the sun, or some other activity that required my face to be naked.  I made a comment about not being able to see my eyelashes and he either gave me the best compliment or the worst insult, ever.

Mountain Man told me that he really couldn’t tell I wasn’t wearing any makeup.  I wasn’t quite sure how to take this statement at first.  But then, I referred back to a conversation we’d had a long time ago.  Somewhere in the history of us, Mountain Man had made a comment about my makeup being natural looking and accentuating my natural beauty.  One of the sweetest, most sincere things anyone has ever said to me.

Where I see every single freckle I’ve ever acquired in my entire life, invisible eyelashes, and the evidence of Father Time marching ever so diligently across my face, Mountain Man sees me.  The real me.  The me that I try to highlight with a hint of color and a lot of black mascara.  And he loves me no matter what.

So whenever he says that he can’t tell whether or not I’m wearing any makeup, I no longer wonder if he’s in serious need of an optometrist visit and some new contacts.  No, on those days when my face is naked and I can’t seem to see a trace of an eyelash anywhere, and my freckles are contumaciously staring back at me in the mirror, I’ll just remember that my Mountain Man sees something in me beyond those things.  And I’ll remember that it’s not an insult when he says that he can’t tell when I’m bare-faced.