It’s cloudy outside, so I don’t mind spending my Sunday ripping seams out of my favorite red t-shirt. Besides, it gives me something to do while I sit here in front of my sunlamp, which I have to do from August ’til March lest I tumble down into that depression place where I want to tear my eyes out with a seam ripper.
My boyfriend popped in a few minutes ago and asked why I didn’t just buy a new red t-shirt. I told him that this is my favorite red t-shirt. He said he saw one just like it at Target last week and that he’d buy me one. I told him I don’t want another one, that I like the way the ragged edge around the neck hole curls up and looks interesting. He said that there is nothing interesting about a woman wearing a torn-up t-shirt. I told him that there is nothing more interesting in this entire world than such a woman, and that he had better leave. He left, but I suspect he’ll be back in time for dinner.
So, I’m ripping seams out of my favorite red t-shirt. It has always been my favorite for the exact same reason that has me ripping out the seams. This t-shirt is flattering in the way only a flat-chested woman can understand. It’s tight. And form-fitting. In fact, it is so tight and form-fitting that I have to tear out the seams around the neck because half of them tore out the last time I put it on. The reality is that my head will always be bigger than my bosoms, and the fate of the neck hole was imminent. But I can fix it. I am fixing right now. I am sitting here ripping the seams out of my favorite red t-shirt.
Filed under aging, autobigraphy, body image, conflict, fiction, flash fiction, humor, irony, relationships, sarcasm, Uncategorized, women, writing
When I arrived to the office this morning, my hair took it upon itself to annoy me by hanging in my face.
In the absence of barrettes or bobby pins, I MacGyver’d restraining devices from paperclips.
I think the result makes a statement about liberation from the constructs of traditional beauty, while providing commentary about the shackles of a 9-to-5, hose-and-heels workplace.
Moreover, I hope my hair doesn’t rust.
Do you ever wake up on a Sunday and decide that you’re not going to take a shower but the prickles in your armpits are uncomfortable so you scrape them with a dry, twin-blade, Venus knock-off and all seems fine until about 15 minutes later when your pits burn with the intensity of a white-hot sun? And then later in the day you decide to go ahead and take a shower and while doing so absent-mindedly drag that same razor across your pits again and scream with the sensation of having smeared wasabi on an open wound?
I had smelled my way through every airplane-bottle-sized vial of scented oil in the St. Louis Galleria’s Bare Escentuals store. My head pounded from the onslaught of floral, dusty, musty and rainwater-fresh fragrances. And still, nothing.
The strategy of the store was to lure you in with the essence of redolent oils and then for a perky sales clerk to sell you a scent blended into every kind of body wash, shampoo, conditioner and hand soap she had stocked on the shelves.
They all stunk to me. And there was only one left to smell.
It was called simply, “JM.” Those are my initials. “This could be perfume kismet,” I thought as I closed my eyes and lifted the bottle to my nose. It smelled soapy and clean. It smelled like fresh starts and new beginnings. It smelled the way I wanted to smell, the kind of smell that I thought, if it were exuding from my pores, would make me hopeful and happy. I wanted to smear it all over my body, and Ingrid, eager for her commission, was more than willing to work her alchemic magic to ensure that I had enough product to drench myself in morning, noon and night.
“And,” Ingrid said, “the owner’s daughter’s initials are ‘JM’, so you can be sure it’ll never be discontinued.”
“Thank God,” I said. “I haven’t been able to count on anything lately.”
Ingrid had promised.
As you know, we’ve recently had to consolidate our office space. Please know that I am thrilled to have you as an office-mate. I think you will find the room pleasant – it is close enough to the coffee that some of our co-workers stop in to say hello, but not so close that all of them do. I think the windows, with their view of the courtyard, sell themselves.
Full disclosure, as I do believe honesty is the best policy in every relationship, last evening I enjoyed a dinner of macaroni and cheese (gluten, dairy) with steamed broccoli (cruciferous). To that end, today might be a bit uncomfortable – I believe it will prove to be a crying shame that the aforementioned windows don’t open.
A spider has laid eggs in the side of my face.
The turgid mass has grown so large that surely, at any moment, it will burst and spew forth dozens of arachnid progeny. I am certain of this.
The lump is definitely not a massive zit I have manhandled to the point that the resultant yellow and purple mound is an affront to dermatologists everywhere.
No. A spider has laid eggs in the side of my face.
I am certain of this.
When I was 33 and lived in St. Louis, I got it in my mind that I wanted to take a ballet class. I found one at Forest Park Community College. Wearing pink tights and a leotard for the first time in 24 years, I was relieved to find the class full of housewives – women who wanted just one hour a week to get out of the house, move to pristine music and maybe, just maybe, feel beautiful.
About fifteen minutes into the first class a bodacious black woman stepped away from the barre, pointed at the instructor and said “Now you listen here, sister. I have no intention of becoming a prima ballerina.” The studio was silent for a tense moment until, I kid you not, the Asian lady at the end of the barre farted. She farted. Well, that pretty much sealed the deal. There would be no prima ballerinas at FPCC.