(no subject)
Of all the things I thought I'd be doing today, I didn't think that I would have to decide whether my genitals look more like a flower or a cactus.
To get to the bathrooms in this particular restaurant, one must walk away from the main seating area, up a corridor and in to a little foyer. There are two doors - one for women, and one for men. On one, a painting of a cactus is hung. On the other, a painting of a flower. I pause and look from door to door. Cactus. Flower. Cactus. Flower. Cactus Flower. Wasn't that the name of a Goldie Hawn film? I don't think it matters, I say to myself and, inexplicably, look down at my groin. Cactus or flower? Should I call someone and ask? But who? An ex? My doctor? I take a deep breath and push open the 'flower' door.
Back at the table, my mother is waiting. I slide in to my seat, a wide grin on my face, and begin to tell her the story of the cactus/flower doors.
"Don't talk about that so loudly," she frowns. "People might hear you."
I shrug and push the salt and pepper shakers around on the table. "If I ever have a stand-up act, I'm going to put that in it."
She puts the salt shaker back where it was. "Leave those."
I pick up the pepper shaker and make a show of lifting it over the salt shaker before putting it back down. "Checkmate!" I declare.
"What?"
"Nothing," I sigh, resigned. "Just a chess joke."
The waitress delivers the bill and my mother, ever frugal, checks and double-checks it. She reads off what we both ordered and I think to myself, God, all I really wanted was a salad.
My feet ache by the time we get to the theatre. We manage to make it to our seats as the overture begins, and there is a shock of blue light from beside me as my mother takes out her mobile phone and turns it off. People crane their necks to see where the light is coming from and pointedly look away and focus on the pianist
That never happens, of course. In fact there is one moment in the show that makes me realise, more than ever, that I'm just a person in an audience watching a woman deliver lines on stage. "Sad to be all alone in the world," is the line, and it's delivered well. It's repeated throughout the show; she herself is not bemoaning her state of lonliness but rather making a sarcastic remark regarding someone else's. I watch her shimmy around on the stage and smile broadly in the darkness.
Back at home, I sit on the side of the tub, slide off my shoes and assess the damage. The skin on my heels is angry and red, and there is an evil looking blister on my toe. I wince as I wash the blood away, then dab it softly with a make-up wipe and wrap it in a Band-Aid. Leaning back, I kick my leg up and wriggle my toes. As good as new. I never let anyone touch my bare feet. I hate the way it feels.
I grab more make-up wipes and a hand mirror, and begin 'taking off my face'. First the lipstick goes, then the mascara, then the rouge and foundation. I wash my face, cover it in toner and then rub in a fingerful of moisturiser. I add a different moisturiser to my hair and put the hand mirror away. Before I leave the room, I examine my face in the mirror.
"Sad to be all alone in the world," I say to myself, parroting back the line from the show. I switch out the bathroom light and for a while I can't see anything but the blue glow of my mother's mobile phone as she turns it back on in the hallway.