Feeling Pretty a.k.a. The Bad Buddhist

This morning I woke up four and a half hours before I had to be at work. I did some half-assed yoga, followed by thirty minutes of meditation, then I made some coffee and oatmeal for breakfast. So far so good.  But there was still time left over, which inevitably lead to Facebook. And then, for reasons unknown, face painting.

A touch of mascara and we're done!

I hadn't put on a full face of make-up for at least a year (save for that one night at the ball). When I was a teenager, make-up was mandatory. It was partly fun and partly a form of self-expression. Or so I thought (it's really just another gimmick advertisers use to get us to buy their shit and feel good about ourselves while we're doing it). But I didn't care about those kinds of things back then. As an adult I only wore make-up to work. Working in an office required me to look the part (or so I told myself). But eventually even that got tiring. I couldn't get away with wearing jeans to the office, but doggone it, there's nothing they could say to me about refusing to put on some mascara! It was my quiet protest. Against beauty. Against advertising. Against blindly accepted ideals.

But enough about this fascinating history. I didn't intend this story to be concerned with social conformity, although that plays a big part in pretty much everything we do. This story is about something quite different. It's more of a Man vs. Himself story than one of Man vs. Society. Or should I say Woman vs. Herself. Let me start over.

Upon seeing my subtly painted face in the mirror, I felt... well, pretty. Dammit! This feeling was immediately followed by a sense of shame. But why? I was raised atheist, not Roman Catholic (although, to be fair, the Catholics don't hold a patent on self-loathing). In fact, the closest I've ever come to anything Catholic was my trip to the Vatican a few years ago. And even that felt more like a trip to Las Vegas than to a holy place (you guys really need to tone that shit down; remember, less is more).

Yep, these eyelashes are a one-way ticket to hell.

What's wrong with feeling pretty, you ask? Well, I'm not exactly sure; you'd have to ask my subconscious mind for an answer to that one. I hate that make-up makes me feel anything; I hate that it makes a difference. Why am I so concerned with this, you ask? Is it a neurosis? Maybe. I don't like feeling controlled by something or somebody, even if it's my own damned Ego (I'm just going to go ahead and capitalize it because... well, quite frankly, it's earned it). Why do I feel that "feeling pretty" is akin to "being controlled"? The fact that I haven't worn make-up or been to the hairdresser for over a year should show me that I can certainly live without these things. And yet, that's somehow not enough. Not only do I want to be okay without them, I want to be completely unfazed by their existence.

I've been calling this equanimity, but here's an actual definition of equanimity: "Neither a thought nor an emotion, it is rather the steady conscious realization of reality's transience. It is the ground for wisdom and freedom and the protector of compassion and love. While some [like the author of this post] may think of equanimity as dry neutrality or cool aloofness, mature equanimity produces a radiance and warmth of being. The Buddha described a mind filled with equanimity as "abundant, exalted, immeasurable, without hostility and without ill-will." So there you have it folks. I'm wrong. Again.

Is it possible that I have an aversion to non-equanimity? But if there is no "self" or at least if self is not the five aggregates which create a sense of self (i.e. body, feelings, perceptions, mental formations, and consciousness), then why do I care? And more importantly, if I'm not a Buddhist, why am I talking like this? On a side note, if I was a Buddhist, why am I flagellating myself with the Roman Catholic rod for failing to live up to some "Buddhist" ideal? Am I Catholicizing Buddhism? If so, my guilt and shame have just doubled. God damn it, it's like a perpetual shaming machine! 

This is me this morning - flanked by Shame (in red) and Guilt (in the fetching hat).

How to reconcile these forces? It's not that I feel different with or without make-up. I'm not spending my day looking in a mirror after all. But when I did catch a glimpse of myself today, I thought "Damn!" Again, followed by shame. But if it's the Ego that's saying "Damn!" then it's also the Ego that's saying "Shame on you!" Luckily, because I have a degree of equanimity (however small), the scene playing out between my ears was more of a formal debate than a battle. A curiosity if you will. Albeit one shrouded in shame.

I admit I'm exaggerating a little here. The truth is when I take care of the essentials (the spiritual side of life), then these peripheries don't matter much. I guess I just had higher expectations of myself - apparently ones that involved being completely unmoved by anything beautiful or ugly, painful or pleasurable, or even anything neutral. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just goes to show that I, too, am human. Or at least not a rock.

Although the resemblance is uncanny!

Judgment-free awareness. That's where it's at. But just go ahead and try it. It's near impossible for any unenlightened being. And if you were raised Roman Catholic, good luck to you my friend! So in the end, the only thing that this morning revealed to me, the only insight I had, is that I'm (slightly) neurotic. But that's technically not even an insight. That's like looking at the above rock and saying "Hey, it's a rock!" But then again, isn't that the essence of "judgment-free awareness"? It's almost too simple to wrap my neurotic neurons around.

I wanted to end things with Pretty Vacant by the Sex Pistols, but alas, YouTube will not allow it. Correction: Universal Music Group (which bought all the rights back in 2006) won't allow it. Thanks UMG. Anyhow, I remember hearing this song for the first time as a kid (it was also the first Sex Pistols song I ever heard) and it instantly resonated with me. It's at once trite and profound. And perhaps most importantly, it's straightforward. Johnny Rotten may not be a Buddhist. But he's one hell of a frontman. And maybe that's enough.