Yesterday we were getting ready our fun-filled afternoon at Marty Martin's house.
Because what's more fun than spending the afternoon with this guy?
And Marvin ran out to get a bottle of wine, because from the looks of things above, he desperately needed one. Anyway, I was putting on some mascara, or mascaaaaara, as they say it in that Rimmel London commercial, and I could not get it to look right on my bottom lashes. It wouldn't go on right. Thirty years I've been putting on mascara, mascaaaaara, I've never had this problem.
This was when I noticed I was missing some bottom eyelashes.
I WAS MISSING SOME BOTTOM EYELASHES!
Like, a big CHUNK out the middle was gone. It looked like Alfalfa's part.
Can you see? In the middle there? Lashes are missing! MISSING!
Here. I pointed it out for you. I also added some eyeliner, just for yucks. I cannot resist that Paint program. Do you like that one crazy old man eyebrow I got up there?
So, naturally I dashed over to Google to see what was wrong with me, and by the time Marvin came home with an entire grocery bag of stuff, because God forbid he ever just go to the store quickly even though we are supposed to be somewhere, I met him halfway across the lawn.
"Okay, I'm trying not to freak out," I said.
Marvin got that look he gets when I get freaked out.
"What," said Marvin. Have I mentioned he should really work at one of those 24-hour crisis lines?
"I am missing some of my bottom eyelashes. Look!" I leaned in.
"Oh, you are n–Oh, wow, you really are," he said.
"I KNOW!" I said, getting shrill. "I Googled it–"
"Of course you did," said Marvin. I am not supposed to Google symptoms anymore.
"I Googled it," I began again, "and it could be this really rare stroke thing, where your face gets frozen, and parts of your face turn white, and fall off. Is any of my face getting white?"
I turned my face this way and that.
Marvin hoisted his groceries and did the thing he always does when I get this way. "YOU'RE GOOD," he said, and went into the house.
Okay, but here is the thing.
One day I might be 87. I mean I doubt it, because my face is about to fall off in white chunks and how long can you live through that? But if I do survive this (and by the way, now it is starting to hurt. I keep wishing I had a teesy ice pack, for just under my eye. Or maybe a tiny prescription for Vicodin or Oxycontin or something. Just a small one. But you may be surprised to hear that my doctor is kind of sick of me), the thing is, one day when I am 87, and Marvin is 86, (yes, I know, cougar alert!) we will be pushing our walkers with the tennis balls on the bottom through the Denny's parking lot and I will say, "I feel a case of deep vein thrombosis coming on" and Marvin will say:
and I WON'T be good, because I'm 87, and something REALLY WILL be wrong and he won't take me seriously and that will be the end. At the Denny's, there.
So I think Marvin should take each.one. of these cases very seriously because you never know when it will be the one. Is what I think.
Oh, and Google said this could also be allergies, and that is why people lose their eyelashes on the bottom. And when we were at Marty Martin's
and we were sitting on his deck with his cute girlfriend Kaye and his cute cute cute doggie and all the pollen and such, I did notice that I kept wiping my eyes. And no one said, "Hey, June, parts of your face are falling off." So maybe that is why I am losing my eyelashes at such an alarming rate.
Do you think I should send off for some Latisse? Should I have engaged Marty Martin in a jerky little dance?
I'll write tomorrow. MAYBE.