(or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Concealer)

By Bonnie Weinstein Crowe

I approached the makeup counter at the posh department store with apprehension. Admittedly, while I partake in the usual female camouflage, I wouldn't consider myself anything like an expert. When it comes to trying things out like "The Smokey Eye," I look like I've gone a few rounds with the women's MMA champ.

The few times I've tried following the instructions of the leading blogger, a sex kitten school girl from Michigan who's probably not even old enough to drive a car, I felt woefully inadequate with trying to figure out which size brush gets used for what and where to use it. I suspect that other women learned about these things in high school, probably when I was stuck repeating Algebra. Also, I wonder things like does a $30 Beauty Blender sponge really work better than say a 99 cent CVS special? Did the Beauty Blender come from under some rock in the Dead Sea and the CVS special get ripped from the shores of condemned beach in South Jersey?

Usually, I just slather on some foundation until I'm an appropriate shade of beige, don some Viva Glam red lipstick (because my grandma always told me a lady never leaves the house without her lips on) and stick on a giant pair of dark sunglasses to cover the rest.

However, when my 12-year-old daughter told me that the dark circles under my eyes caused by the long hours it took making my latest book deadline, combined with a recent late-night "Orange is the New Black" marathon made me look like an extra on "The Walking Dead" -- and an old lady extra at that-- I decided to take quick, non-surgical action, because I'm afraid of needles and Botox isn't covered on my insurance policy (I know, I checked).

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