Seriously... I'm Kidding (2 page)

ADDENDUM

There are a few things I wanted to include in this book but decided instead to save for my memoir. The following is a list of things you will not read about in this book:

• Details of my long-term relationship with Javier Bardem.
  

• My years spent in juvie.
  

• My early days as a pioneer of disco.
  

• My involvement with the Milli Vanilli lip-synching scandal of 1990.
  

• My recently discovered half-sister.
  

• The leaked sex tape.
  

CoverGirl

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Beauty is only skin deep.

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.

T
hroughout my entire life, I have believed in these sentiments. I’ve believed that true beauty is not related to what color your hair is or what color your eyes are. True beauty is about who you are as a human being, your principles, your moral compass. And then in 2008 I was finally able to throw all that hogwash out the window because I was named the new face of CoverGirl cosmetics! Take a bite out of that, world! Check out these cheekbones! I’m a beauty queen! (This is where flashbulbs go off and I turn my head from side to side, posing like a supermodel. It was apparently “too expensive” and “not possible” to put mini lightbulbs in every book, so you’re just gonna have to imagine it. I’m sorry.)

The truth is, I still believe that above all things physical, it is more important to be beautiful on the inside—to have a big heart and an open mind and a spectacular spleen. (Actually, most people’s insides are disgusting. Even pretty people have very unattractive insides. Have you ever seen those surgery shows on Discovery? Not pretty.)

To me, beauty is about being comfortable in your own skin. It’s about knowing and accepting who you are. I’m happy being who I am. I’m confident, I live honestly and truthfully, and I think that’s why I was chosen as the first fifty-year-old, openly gay CoverGirl. It’s just a bonus that I have devastatingly blue eyes.

But we really are a society that focuses so much on physical appearance. I realized this recently when I accidentally looked into one of those mirrors that magnify your face to five hundred times its actual size. They sell them at Bed Bath & Beyond in the “Things That Make You Feel Bad About Yourself” aisle. They’re right next to the bathroom scales, usually on a shelf you’re too short to reach. I’m sure you’ve all looked into one of them at some point. On one side, it’s a totally normal mirror. And then if you turn it over to the other side, your face looks like the surface of the moon.

Portia and I have one in our shower. I never look in it because it’s usually blocked by the person who washes me. But for some reason I looked in it one day and, oh Lordy, that is a horrible invention! Who invented that thing and why haven’t they been jailed? Those things need to come with a warning. Car mirrors have warnings that say, “Objects are closer than they appear.” Magnification mirrors should have warnings that say, “Objects are not as attractive as they appear.”

They show you things you didn’t know were there, that no one can possibly see. I looked at my hairline and I found a family of doves living in it. It was shocking. The only people who need to see things that close up are surgeons who are performing delicate operations and jewelers. That’s it. No one is gonna see you the way you see yourself in those mirrors unless you’re married to a surgeon or a jeweler and they come home from work still wearing that apparatus. “Honey, I’m home. Oh my goodness, your pores are huge!”

I don’t know why we ever need to look into those. They’re not accurate. They point out every single one of our flaws. We don’t need that. That’s why we have mothers. The fact of the matter is that everyone has flaws. No one is perfect, except for Penélope Cruz. Our flaws are what make us human. If we can accept them as part of who we are, they really don’t even have to be an issue.

I feel the same way about age. I’ve never been someone to lie about my age. I don’t understand it. Actually, I don’t know how people can lie about their age anymore now that the Internet exists. Not only can people easily find out what year I was born, they can find out what time, what hospital, how long my mother was in labor. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was footage on YouTube of the doctor spanking me. The only reason there isn’t is because YouTube didn’t exist when I was born.

Our age is something we have absolutely no control over; it’s just a fact of who we are. I enjoy growing older and wiser and learning from my mistakes every single day. I’m happy, for example, that I no longer eat paste, like I did when I was twenty-four. And I’m happy that in a few years I’ll be able to get half-price tickets to movies and museums. Considering how often I go to the movies and museums, I could save upward of thirty dollars a year.

When we were kids, all we wanted was to be older. When we were seven and a half and someone said we were only seven, we were furious. We probably even cried about it. Can you imagine doing that now as an adult? “This is Marsha. She’s forty-two.” “Forty-two and a half! You always forget the half! I’m practically forty-two and three-quarters!” I don’t know at what age people stop wanting to be older. People seem to enjoy their twenties and thirties. It must be around forty, when you’re “over the hill.” I don’t even know what that means and why it’s a bad thing. When I go hiking and I get over the hill, that means I’m past the hard part and there’s a snack in my future. That’s a good thing as far as I’m concerned.

People seem to be shy about their age through their fifties and sixties, but then once they hit seventy or eighty, they start telling people again because it’s such a huge victory to have made it that far. No one gets to one hundred and tells people they’re only ninety-five. So I don’t know why anyone has to lie about those middle years. We should celebrate every year that we made it through and every year that we’re happier and healthier. Because honestly, that’s the best-case scenario. And the bottom line is we are who we are—we look a certain way, we talk a certain way, we walk a certain way. I strut because I’m a supermodel, and sometimes I gallop for fun. When we learn to accept that, other people learn to accept us. So be who you really are. Embrace who you are. Literally. Hug yourself. Accept who you are. Unless you’re a serial killer.

I know it seems easy and breezy for me to say, but trust me—it’s okay to be you. If you had called me fifteen years ago and told me I was going to end up being a CoverGirl, I would have said, “No way” and “How’d you get this number?” But look at me now. I’m totally myself and I’m an internationally known, widely sought-after supermodel. I even went to Paris one time.

How to Be a Supermodel

S
ince I am a CoverGirl, I thought if any of you are interested in learning a little bit about modeling I could offer you some tips. I’ve sashayed down plenty of catwalks in my day—well, one. But I know what it takes to make an impression. So here are some suggestions, as long as you are willing to be fierce.

One: The Look

Always look like you’re angry at the universe for making you too pretty.

Two: The Walk

Trot. Aggressively, like you’re a horse that’s trying to avoid puddles.

Three: The Squint

Squint like someone is bouncing sunlight off their watch and directly into your eyes.

Four: The Pout

Get those lips out there. Purse your lips like you’re trying to sip out of a straw that someone keeps moving away from you.

Five: The Pose

Be mysterious. Always pose with one hand in your pocket as if to say, “I’m so mysterious, this hand in my pocket could be a hook hand. You don’t know.”

Six: The Breeze

Carry a giant oscillating fan with you at all times. No exceptions.

Now put it all together. Trot! Squint! Get the straw! Who’s a pretty girl? You are. Keep trotting!

Stuff

I
don’t like clutter. I firmly believe that there is a place for everything and everything should be in its place. And I know there’s a name for people like me: neat.

It is astounding to me how much stuff we all have. Our closets are full of stuff. Our drawers are full of stuff. Our stuff is piled on top of other stuff. And the older we get the more stuff we have because over the years we buy more and more stuff and we never want to let go of anything. Nowadays people are a little more aware of how much stuff they have because there’s a bit of a social stigma if you have too much stuff. There’s even a name for the people who have the most stuff. They’re called hoarders. Back in the day they were just called grandmothers.

If you want to clean out your house and get rid of stuff, you can always do a good spring cleaning every year. Or you can do what I do. Move. I move a lot. I’ve moved about ten times over the past fifteen years. I don’t move for the sole purpose of getting rid of stuff. I’m not crazy. I also move so that I never have to wash any windows. “Is that a smudge? Time to pack it up. Let’s go.”

When you’re packing up a house, you’re forced to decide what you really need versus what you can get rid of. You might have been holding on to cases and cases of empty glass jars, but once you have to pack them up and move them, you realize maybe you’re not going to harvest your own honey.

My mama is similar to me in that she also likes to move a lot. Mama has moved thirty-two times since 1952. It’s so funny because I remember sometimes I would come home from school and there would be a note on the door that said, “I moved. Try and find me!” And I would spend hours and hours trying to find the new house. Sometimes I would find it by nightfall but sometimes I wouldn’t. Actually this is really funny—one time she accidentally forgot to leave a note and I had no idea she had even moved. I was living in the house with a beautiful Mexican family for about three months before I realized they weren’t my cousins visiting from out of town. They were so nice. They called me “
Quien es, quien es
,” which I thought was a beautiful name.

Anyway, my mama might be similar to me as far as moving around goes, but as far as clutter is concerned she’s a little different. When she moved into the house she lives in now (I think she’s gonna stay there for a while—they say the thirty-second time is the charm), she made it a point to tell me how excited she was because she was going to downsize. She was getting rid of all the stuff she didn’t need anymore and starting fresh in her new house. I was so proud of her. I went over to help her settle in and I assumed when I got there I wouldn’t have to unpack much more than a pillow and a spoon. Not so.