I have always noticed that I am a little different than my lady friends on the “making sure things are nice” front. I’ve never cared all that much about shoes, make-up or having perfectly pegged jeans (okay, I did care about that from 1985-7; never got there), but when we were young and fresh-faced, neither did many of my friends. Probably because we were oblivious and cash poor.  I don’t even think I knew there was a 1K price point on shoes until Sex & the City.

As I hit 30 and then moved in with my spouse, the differences between me and the majority of females became more obvious. I noticed that some women seemed to care about things that did not even register for me. The Feng Shui of a room. Various shades/names of paint colors. That maybe one’s shower curtain/towels should or at least could match. That soap dispensers made a bathroom look nicer. People started asking me what style of furniture I liked (apparently, we have something called “Mission style” which my pervy mentality had some trouble getting around. Just saying).

I also started catching on that there were good and not good ways to apply make-up. Naturally, I fell into the latter category despite many tutorials from well-intentioned Sephora employees (whose own make-up never inspired much confidence, by the by). It’s not that I apply too much or am garish, mind you (see: Sephora staff). It’s just that less is not always more but can instead just be less. I did learn that there is something called “primer” (it’s not helpful, I got sucked in) and that some people own more than one mascara (still do not get why). I discovered that people don’t always use the same lip shade and have a wide variety of colors from which to choose (whazza). During this period of discovery, I was mostly still rolling out of bed and hoping for the best, though with a little more moolah on hand, I did invest in some expensive make-up that I never wore . So yeah, the differences between Me and Them blipped faintly on my radar, but I did not feel like some outlier to the female race. I felt kind of low-maintenance, at least on this front.

Then I got engaged and suddenly I was Out There. They (aka other women, aka good friends) would speak about wedding planning/minutia and my eyes would glaze over. While I knew enough to want a large and charge (yet subtle!) ring (I was not a complete moron), I realized that whatever gene I lacked on the home furnishings/decor and make-up front also affected my wedding planning skills/outlook.  I did not understand details like favors, bridesmaids, the importance of a first dance, seating arrangements and having a color scheme, so I avoided all of these things. Most of all I could not grasp why in the world anyone would want – or need –  a year-long engagement, though this seemed the norm amongst my friends at that time.

My engagement was 3 months long and most people who knew me didn’t try to talk me out of that (as an aside, my husband likes to joke that after he proposed, I called the venue and said, “it’s a go” which I DID NOT DO NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU SAY THAT. I digress). But my good friends knew it was pointless to tell me April might be too rushed after a February proposal. A few bravely said things like, “You might find that it’s hard to plan in such a short time” or the like. But here’s the thing: When you lack a certain female gene – the one that cares about “making things nice” or, say, match-y – nothing really takes that long. If you don’t care whether you have square or round vases (I didn’t), you’re kind of good to go.

Why am I talking about my engagement/wedding 11 years ago you might ask? Because now, in my 40s,  I’m starting to wonder if my making-things-nice deficiency is starting to do me wrong. Maybe I’m not really low-maintenance but instead am uber lazy. Maybe I don’t care about making things nice – including and especially zhoozhing up my own self –  because it requires….effort.

Part of the reason I am questioning things (“things” being my apparently male genes) is that I can no longer rest on my youth to make my non-fussed upon face look presentable. Another reason is that  even though I still mostly don’t are about this type of thing, I live in Manhattan, a land of (beautiful) people who do.When I am out and about – south of the Birkenstock, overalls-wearing UWS (even I’m not that bad, people), I am reminded that 99% of women here look way more together – or at least put-together –  than I do.  And then to top it all off, there are my good friends who are annoyingly attractive and rude enough to also be fashionable. They look (effortlessly) put together. Their hair is did. They have some light, well-applied make-up. Everything works.

So, here I sit, the opposite of whatever that is. I’m okay being defunct at making “things” nice – I couldn’t do it differently if I tried my very best –  but I have started to try to make “me” nice. Or nicer.  I try to remember to at least put on some under-eye concealer when I go out (which is really for the best. Like, my own dad once asked me – with alarm – how I got a black eye. I did not have a black eye). I try to wear lip gloss (when I remember). I make sure my collar/shirt is not tucked in spazzily. I dry clean clothes to iron them.

There are even times when I say to myself, “I am going to actually do my make-up tonight,” and settle in for the 2-3 minute application process. On these occasions, if (and only if) prodded,  friends respond to my prideful mugging of my made-up face with comments like “You’re wearing mascara?” Not in the “oh, you never wear make up, it looks so good!” way that I’m fishing for, but in a “I really can’t tell and that’s a little sad for you” manner. It’s a vaguely disheartening, but I persevere, changing nothing in my routine the next time around, but hoping for a different outcome/reaction anyway.

I know I could do more. I could take the time to straighten my hair, especially since I have hair envy of everyone I hang out with including my 10 year-old daughter, who got the thick, shiny tresses mine aspire to be. But in moments of trying to give a shit, the net result is always the same: I sweat a lot (that dryer is some hot shit), curse even more, and end up looking sort of like Cameron Diaz in “Being John Malkovitch,” which in case you don’t remember, was not a good look. I also know I could get make-up application advice on, say, youtube from a variety of savvy 13 year-olds, all of whom clearly know more about make-up than I do, despite having lived 30 fewer years.

But….I’m low maintenance and lack that gene. Or I’m just lazy. Whichever.