I have a problem. It’s expensive, it’s vain and ultimately it is bad for my self esteem.

It happens every time I enter a the cosmetics section of a department store . I am seduced by the bright lights and repeated promises of the make up counter. It’s like suddenly I am in a magical place where everything I read is true and  nothing is more important than flawless skin, wide eyes and ridiculously long eye lashes. I firmly believe a miracle lies in the bottles on the shelves – I just need to unearth it.

Last Friday was no exception. My very good friend and partner in crime work, Kerri and I had been at a work related meeting all morning. We were suave and professional until about the second we left the building when we went back to normal. In the car on the way home we discussed some very important issues that had not come up in the meeting because they were not at all work related.  Even though the issues weren’t work related they were slightly stressful so we decided to take them to Westfield at Bondi Junction to get rid of them.

Although I am sure Kerri will deny it, it was when we went to the bathroom and the harsh light shone on the bags under my eyes that she told me about this new product that she loved. And I started to tremble because I knew where we were headed next.

As we walked through the magical make-up corridor towards the Benefit counter where we were going to find a concealer that would change my life, er I mean face, I got that familiar feeling. I needed ALL the things. Even though I own a fair bit of make up I still have this nagging feeling that there is something that I am missing – that one piece of magic makeup that is actually going to change my face, make me look different – younger, smoother, shinier, more “finished”. Actually I am not even sure what I am looking for any more.

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Ten minutes later I found myself sitting on a chair having all manner of make up applied to my face.  Eyes closed, lips pursed, cheeks sucked in I was very patient while I had my face painted. I was convinced that when I looked in the mirror I would hardly recognise my new flawless skin.

But when the lovely woman handed me a mirror and I glanced at my reflection I looked just like me.  If anything was different it was that all the make up was now highlighting my fine lines so they looked less fine and more prominent.

Kerri insisted that I looked gorgeous. Another clue that she was working for the enemy Benefit.  And so it happened like it always does, I was persuaded by the perfume, the hype, the adverts and the lies that the make up might just be magic and maybe the woman had not been liberal enough in her application.  So I bought it all.

And I took it home and I applied it quite liberally. And you’ll never guess what happened.

I look exactly the same as I did before.

Every night I sit at the exact same place on the couch. I balance my computer precariously on the arm of the couch and I spend the evening skipping between Twitter, Facebook and listening to my husband admonishing me that the computer is in a very precarious position and is going to drop.

Last night was no different except when the phone rang underneath my bum I got such a big fright (and admittedly I could not find the phone) that I jumped right up and dropped the computer. And I killed it.

Well I didn’t kill it completely. Its heart is still beating erratically but it’s on life support because its face (otherwise known as screen) is smashed.

After my initial tears I cried some more. I am addicted to my computer like fish are addicted to water or humans to air. It’s not a matter of wanting to use it, I actually need to use it.

My son tried to placate me with offerings of his computer until he realised that if I was using it he wouldn’t be able to.   My husband tried to placate me with some silly box called the TV that you can’t even interact with. He even tried offerings of real life but there was nothing that could lift me out of my heartbreak.  I was shattered. Much like my screen. And so I took myself off to bed.

I lay there empty handed and alone until I caught my iPad beckoning from the bedside table. I quickly installed Pages so that I could get on with the business of writing and while I was waiting for it to load I noticed that the previously sparse screen looked very busy. Little  Pencil, who was watching that box thing next to me, explained that all of his purchases must have downloaded onto the iPad because the accounts are synched.

And that’s when it happened. Unsuspecting and unaware but with a vague memory of reading a million requests to play Candy Crush on Facebook I clicked on it and decided to give it a shot while I waited for my application to load.

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I am addicted.

I get what the people on Facebook are nagging me about.

I am a woman possessed.

How do I get new lives? How do I get past level 23? How do I stop playing this game?

Are you a candy crush player? Do you understand what I am going through? Will you forgive me if I take ages to respond to you because I’m just playing ONE more game…