I’ve heard people talk about owning your crazy. I appreciate this notion. I have a lot of crazy to own. But today, I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about owning my lazy. In some ways, I’m a pretty hardworking gal. I hold down a job, keep my house tidy, do the occasional load of laundry, and even crank out a book here and there. (Hello Heartbreaker!) But when it comes to my face? Wow. That’s a lot of lazy. I could tell you the things I do for my face, but it might be easier to tell you what I don’t do. I don’t wash my face before bed. I don’t use fancy moisturizers, despite having entered those golden mid-forties where the wrinkles and sagging and bagging seem to grow up overnight. I don’t wear makeup—not because my face doesn’t need it, because of course it does. More because I’m too lazy to take it off at night. I don’t pluck my eyebrows. (I do pluck the hair that grows out of my chin. Is that TMI?) I don’t exfoliate. I’m not even entirely sure what that is. The heroine of Heartbreaker, Tess, is a…