first person
"The worst is over..." says the voice on the well-worn CD. I usually don't even pay attention to the words as I sing them along, but today it just rubs me the wrong way. "LIAR!" I call out accusingly, adding him to the list I am now tallying in my head of people that have done me wrong. It isn't an all-inclusive list, just those I can think of today. This recency effect makes the singer pretty high on the ever-lengthening list. Poking whichever button is within my reach to get his unwelcome optimism away from me, he is finally silenced and the car is shut off.
I enter the overpriced store that I too often frequent. We are all addicts and this is my drug of choice. I'd rather eat bottom shelf food and wear top shelf clothing than vice versa. A woman with Freakishly Perfect Hair welcomes me with a too-loud voice. She most likely has a Perfect Life and a Perfect Husband to match. They probably live in a Perfect Apartment straight out of Pottery Barn and have matching SUVs. She asks how I am. She deserves that I tell her the honest truth for asking me such a pre-programmed question, but I don't want to jar her. I have mercy on her and sweetly tell her that I'm "just looking."
I have to make up a reason to be looking for a two hundred, maybe three hundred dollar dress. Of course! My graduation and my birthday loom large. There are dinners coming up. Dinners with fancy flatware and tall stemmed glasses, which usually get me excited, but let's circle our thoughts back around to the graduation, no, the birthday. No, neither, really. My plans after graduation aren't entirely entirely finalized and I'm not all that thrilled about hitting the big two-four on the big twenty-fourth of June. Maybe if I had some cake right now, I would not want to find the source of this annoying Moby CD that they insist on playing in the background and breaking it, but instead I'll just pick a dress and hide in the makeshift dressing room.
I get all the way undressed before catching my own expression in the mirror. When did I become this angry? The one thing I can say for Moby is that his derivative beats cover up my soft crying so that The Girl Who Has Everything doesn't ask me what's wrong. Stepping up closer to the mirror, seeing every swolen vein in my eye, I realize what a wreck I really look like. Not even the three hundred dollars' worth of Vivienne Tam makes this wreck look better. It's still a mess, albeit a mess-in-a-dress.
I regulate my breathing, put the silky masterpiece back on the padded hanger and smile graciously at the kind eyes of the woman who seems genuinely interested as to whether or not the dress worked out. I inform her that no, it simply wasn't a good fit.
I left without the dress, wondering if she had ever not bought a gown because of the dichotomy between her ragged edges as opposed to the seamless viscosity of a an empire-waisted dress which fit perfectly. I can't expect Vivienne Tam to fix my mess - I can't fix it myself -- sometimes, the thing is -- I just don't know where to start.
I enter the overpriced store that I too often frequent. We are all addicts and this is my drug of choice. I'd rather eat bottom shelf food and wear top shelf clothing than vice versa. A woman with Freakishly Perfect Hair welcomes me with a too-loud voice. She most likely has a Perfect Life and a Perfect Husband to match. They probably live in a Perfect Apartment straight out of Pottery Barn and have matching SUVs. She asks how I am. She deserves that I tell her the honest truth for asking me such a pre-programmed question, but I don't want to jar her. I have mercy on her and sweetly tell her that I'm "just looking."
I have to make up a reason to be looking for a two hundred, maybe three hundred dollar dress. Of course! My graduation and my birthday loom large. There are dinners coming up. Dinners with fancy flatware and tall stemmed glasses, which usually get me excited, but let's circle our thoughts back around to the graduation, no, the birthday. No, neither, really. My plans after graduation aren't entirely entirely finalized and I'm not all that thrilled about hitting the big two-four on the big twenty-fourth of June. Maybe if I had some cake right now, I would not want to find the source of this annoying Moby CD that they insist on playing in the background and breaking it, but instead I'll just pick a dress and hide in the makeshift dressing room.
I get all the way undressed before catching my own expression in the mirror. When did I become this angry? The one thing I can say for Moby is that his derivative beats cover up my soft crying so that The Girl Who Has Everything doesn't ask me what's wrong. Stepping up closer to the mirror, seeing every swolen vein in my eye, I realize what a wreck I really look like. Not even the three hundred dollars' worth of Vivienne Tam makes this wreck look better. It's still a mess, albeit a mess-in-a-dress.
I regulate my breathing, put the silky masterpiece back on the padded hanger and smile graciously at the kind eyes of the woman who seems genuinely interested as to whether or not the dress worked out. I inform her that no, it simply wasn't a good fit.
I left without the dress, wondering if she had ever not bought a gown because of the dichotomy between her ragged edges as opposed to the seamless viscosity of a an empire-waisted dress which fit perfectly. I can't expect Vivienne Tam to fix my mess - I can't fix it myself -- sometimes, the thing is -- I just don't know where to start.