It’s better without makeup

Let’s talk beauty. A few months ago I basically stopped wearing makeup, and, with the exception of my unruly bangs, I have forsaken blowdrying my hair, too.

Since then, more than a few friends have asked if I’ve really stopped wearing makeup and also said they were inspired to wear less.

The answer is yes, I really have stopped wearing makeup. I’ll dab a little powder here and there if I’m feeling red or shiny but that’s it. Full stop.

Here’s my routine:

  • Wash with FRÉ (<– Save 15% with code ALYSE)
  • Dab on some FRÉ Revive me – this is like a cup of cofee for your face. I use it when I’m traveling or just plain tuckered out

  • Layer on Protect me – SPF moisturizer. So necessary

  • Sweat Cosmetics sheer mineral powder: for extra SPF, because it is still 90 goddamn degrees here. (<– Save 10% with code SWEATPINK)

Occasionally, if I’m feeling red or shiny, I’ll pull out my compact and do a little spot touchup, but other than that, my makeup bag is collecting dust in my bathroom cupboard.

Also, I never leave home without my Burt’s Bees Pomegranate lip balm. I buy in bulk and keep multiples in every purse, actually, because it is necessary to my life. I’ve also been using Hemp Organics Lip Tint; it’s a nice dash of natural looking color. So I guess that sort of counts as makeup, but there’s no foundation, no mascara, nothin’ else gracing this mug, smearing my pillowcase, or clogging these pores.

Since I stopped wearing makeup, my skin seems much more clear and less prone to redness or breakouts (which was the main reason I wore makeup in the first place, hmm). I don’t think it all has to do with external factors, though: I’ve also been working on beautifying from the inside out.

First: through better hydration. I am terrible about hydration. I get an F in drinking water. Lame, I know. Fixable, 100%.

The sparkling detox challenge was a good kick in the pants to be better about this very simple activity. I am keeping it going strong by adding Gerolsteiner to my cold brew concentrate. Don’t laugh. This COUNTS.

Second: my secret weapon. For the last month, I’ve been trying out Amazing Grass’ Beauty Elixir, which is a pretty little powder you add to water for some inside-out-beautification. I keep this in my purse, and added a daily reminder to take it. Every time I take it, I have to drink more water. WIN.

I have to say, I think my skin is much improved. I have found myself pulling out my powder less frequently as the month goes on—and I haven’t changed anything else about my routine. If anything, I’m getting less sleep, and drinking more coffee. Plus it tastes nice and it forces me to have that extra glass of water everyday.

Save 40% on Amazing Grass with the code SweatPink2017

Apparently, vanity is the motivator I need to hydrate. Go with what works, I guess?

In partnership with Amazing Grass, Gerolsteiner, and FRÉ Skincare.

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So I guess we’re done

Breastfeeding, that is. I spent ten days away from Mac this summer, and had no real plan or agenda about how that would affect our breastfeeding. Over those ten days my body gave a few last gasps of production, and then with a last sigh of resignation it relapsed into pre-pregnancy, pre-breastfeeding state.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sad about the end of our time together. Breastfeeding was hard and painful at first, and it was frustrating and inconvenient any time I dared to step beyond a certain radius of my child, but it was also rewarding, to the tune of an extra 1,000 calories a day to blow on brownies and triple cream yogurt and as a form of bonding unmatched on this earth.

Mac is sad, too. She still nurses, a few times a day, and it’s a soothing transition mechanism for both of us and discomfort for me and frustration for her. There have been so many big changes recently, so much upheaval in routines and places and people, that I’m hesitant to counter with a hard NO when she asks. So she supplicates at the dry well and I squint with occasional twinges and we get along.

Photo: stitchy.lala.pupu

And, speaking of new worlds opening up, that box of clothes I put aside as too small are back in play, and the bras once in regular rotation are officially benched. This pre-baby body is here-ish, forever altered by the expansion and service to a life more important than its own.

And I find myself in need of new bras. Which, by the way, I have foresworn along with makeup. My apotheosis into first-wave feminist is nearly complete, if only I could reject razors and dresses as thoroughly as I have eyeliner and underwires.

So to justify my shopping, I bought a Gap gift card with ShopWithScrip, and then went to town on smaller sizes in the only kind of bras I’ll tolerate these days: bralettes free from wires, hooks, clasps, and all other mechanical fixtures.

And while I wait for my wardrobe updates to arrive, I’m embracing how thoroughly motherhood has, through hormones or hocus pocus, expanded my emotional repertoire enough that I’m missing being at the beck and call of an irrational tiny human.

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We’ve come a long way, baby

Image source

I remember so well my mom routinely sending me to elementary school with a check, which I’d trade in for Safeway Scrip. I didn’t really understand what it was; I just knew that my mom always bought groceries with scrip, and that $100 seemed like a staggering fortune compared to my 50 cent allowance.

I’d guard that stack of $20 paper gift certificates so carefully, tucking them into my otherwise chaotic, disorganized backpack, and rush right home to deliver the goods before something could happen to that precious pile of cash.  And then, grocery shopping with my mom, which was a treat because we always got to each french bread while we shopped. And sometimes it was warm, fresh out of the bakery. Is there anything better than fresh hot bread?

So it came with all sorts of warm fuzzies when ShopWithScrip reached out about partnering with the Sweat Pink community. Back in the 90s, ShopWithScrip kept our family flush with our standard chicken, rice, and steamed broccoli dinners, and also helped my elementary school get supplies and other things public schools are so starved for.

Since then, the program has come a long, long away. #ThanksInternet. You can now get e gift cards for everything, like Target, Amazon, Whole Foods … basically all the places my money goes anyway. But with Shop with Scrip I can justify my spending by sending some of that money back to an organization of my choice. (Watch out, Whole Foods mochi bar: I’m coming for you. IT’S FOR THE CHILDREN).

It’s a way easier to fundraise then, ahem, buying a bunch of cookie dough or wrapping paper. Which I always say yes to, because it’s for the children.

I’ve been doing all my grocery shopping with Scrip, loaded up my Amazon account with a gift card that will vanish tomorrow (gah, Prime, why do I need so many things from you??) and even used Scrip for a little wardrobe update.

If you want to join me on my spending spree for the good of humanity, Fit Approach is using ShopWithScrip to fundraise for Girls on The Run. There are a few steps you involved in getting set up, but once you do, you’re all set to purchase gift cards—even reload your Starbucks card—and give back at the same time.

If you want to give back, join our program benefiting Girls on the Run! Just email me (alyse AT fitapproach.com)  if you’d like to join and I’ll give you our super secret access code to participate.

Or, if you are involved in an organization that needs to fundraise, this is your answer for how how to can scrap bake sales and pancake breakfasts: start fundraising an easier way.

That way, next time you spend your #wholepaycheck at Whole Foods or Amazon, you’re giving a percentage back to helping young girls chase their dreams. And if there’s a right reason to go shopping, it’s gotta be that one.

In partnership with ShopWithScrip. Thank you for supporting organizations who do great work! 

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Let’s run away to Canada

Hi friends, it’s been forever. I’ve written about a bazillion blog posts in my head this summer, especially on the way to or from an airport. It’s been a magnificent summer for travel and an abysmal one for routines and getting the regular stuff done. Like writing here.

Speaking of travel, I’m headed to Vancouver this weekend for a friend’s Still a Bachelorette Party, and the timing couldn’t be more desirable. Here are my top reasons for fleeing for the border:

The Still A Bachelorette is one of my besties 

We’ve been friends for, gulp, 17 years. Half my life. She’s the life of the party and the creator of genius kitchen creations like bacon baskets and ramen pizza. I can’t wait to celebrate with her!

In Canada. Where people are wonderful.

We thought sleep was fixed… until it wasn’t.

The first night home from my solo trip to Europe Mac slept for TEN HOURS IN A ROW. The next night was pretty solid too. Then… back to normal. Talk about a bait’n’switch.

Time to run away again. To Canada, where no doubt toddlers sleep like sweet little silent angels. 

Um, WTF is wrong with our country?

I’m outraged and mute with horror, but I’m also trying to speak up, because the decent humans among us can’t afford to remain silent anymore. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to use my voice. I don’t usually talk about serious things on the internet, but this post helped me think through how, and why, to use my voice in my industry.

In the meantime, I’ll be in Canada. 

Location scouting!

We’re hosting a retreat in Vancouver next month with Lorna Jane. There are, as of this writing, a couple spots left if you want to join us. It’ll be community-building, sweat, and swag, just like in Sonoma. 🙂

This is my preview trip of … Canada!

Um, WTF is wrong with our country?

Bears repeating.

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Honey I fired the sleep trainer

Sleep has been our constant struggle, as I’ve shared over and over again. There are so many times I’ve reached the end of my rope with sleep deprivation, so many mornings when I was sure I could not keep going like this.

Each time, I’ve bounced back, always through the help of my husband or my mom or my village, all of whom are so gracious in taking a night or two and forgiving whatever nasty things I say when I’m at my sleepy craziest.

The last time I hit my edge, I finally called a number that I’d saved several breaking points ago: the number for a sleep coach that several of my mom friends had recommended to me, promising that she was a baby whisperer, and that there was virtually no crying involved in her bag of tricks.

It’s at those desperate moments that the yearning for a magic bullet overpowers your judgment and your critical thinking. There’s no choice but to just dial the number, and groggily ask the questions you’ve been formulating in the small dark hours of the night, night after night.

What is your method.

How much crying do you allow.

What are your success rates.

In which category of the baby product industrial complex should we purchase two of everything to adequately prepare for this process?

Can you come today.

This time, the answers to those questions didn’t turn me off, as they had with previous phone calls I’d made. Most notably: 2 minutes crying max. And, specifically, only the fussing kind of crying, not the hysterical, soul-shredding crying that I am biologically incompatible with.

Two weeks and too much cautious optimism later, my would-be savior showed up, and she took charge of the night shift.

Nathan installed himself in front of his phone so he could monitor the proceedings, with every intention of staying up all night.

I hid in my room and pretended like nothing was happening, except that I anxiously scrolled Facebook and drank a beer and couldn’t fall asleep.

Nathan came in a couple hours into it, and said, I know you don’t want to see this, but I think you should see this. This has been going on for over an hour.

And there, on the video monitor, was my toddler, hysterically screaming bloody murder while frantically trying to open the door to her room.

The coach came in, laid Mac back down in her bed, then left, and immediately, Mac was scrambling out of bed, face and body contorted with rage, twisting and tripping over her sleep sack as she charged the door again.

I marched upstairs and ended it.

Over the next hour, her breathing finally slowed back to its normal rhythm, and she spent the full night sleeping on my chest, like she was brand new to this world. My sweaty barnacle didn’t even want to nurse. She just wanted full body contact.

I realize I am on perhaps the extreme end of the sensitive spectrum when it comes to my baby crying. Maybe with the second one I’ll have developed better coping mechanisms. But I would so much rather drink a lot of coffee and pull in backup support (husbands & grandmas FTW!) than have my child experience that kind of emotional intensity in the service of my convenience.

Sleep training for us lasted less than three hours, all said and done. If anything, our brief flirtation with it set us back, sleep-wise. And I’ve said it before, but I really mean it this time: I’m done with treating this like a problem to be solved.

There’s no magic bullet. And that’s something I just need to keep remembering, every time I think I’ve hit rock bottom.

PSA: Hopefully this is redundant, but it bears repeating since sleep is such a polarizing topic: I have ZERO judgment for—and have zero place to judge—however you are parenting, sleep related or otherwise. This is where I’m at. End of story. 

 

 

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