Things to say in half an hour when your nails might still be wet.
So. This sort of didn’t go as planned. I sort of wigged out. Sort of. It wasn’t a fair wig-out. But then, none of this was fair. I tried to buy another dress and, did, eventually buy another dress, but it took a lot of walking down aisles and contemplating and thinking and then the idea of foundation garments came into the discussion and bras and I bought a dress thinking that it would work and now, having obviously not tried any of these things on, I hate all of them. Run-on sentence hilarity.
I was, in the midst of realizing I couldn’t make this decision, hating myself more profoundly and with greater fervor than has been the case in years. Millenia. Perhaps longer. I couldn’t believe that with all of the dieting I’ve done in this time span, that my body looks like it does. Even the rational parts of my mind were willing to join the chorus. Everything looks awful, I felt like a makeup-less failure and all of this exists the day before this important date – meeting – coffee thing and there is nothing I can do except try to cover it up. It just felt like this hamster wheel of anger and upset and worry started spinning full bore until finally, as I wondered whether or not to buy a forty dollar purse I thought was ugly but would match this dress I just barely tolerate, and I said, stop it. There is nothing you can do. You can go to this date and be nice. Do your makeup, your hair, do the best you can and be okay.
So I gathered up this dress, this bra, this high-waisted pair of underwear, frazzled and irritated that it was already nearly nine and I had to find a way to get settled and ready for sleep and I could think of a thousand missions to be done for self-improvement. Next to the register I spotted a book for children on display called “Do You See a Whale?” which I thought, Jesus, okay, brain, leave me alone. What was far worse, infinitely worse, was that the cashier knew my older sister, but didn’t know me and mistook me for her mother.
When I’m already feeling like a freak and a failure and a lunatic and an exhausted, frightened thing, that was the best fucking cap to the evening.
But here I am, in bed, nails painted, hair washed, a dress picked out that I like even if I am still in convulsions over the fact that my body will be noted, inescapably noted tomorrow and I am embarrassed and regretful and yet, I suppose I should be grateful that such a body will make any ambivalence I have about the date an entirely moot point.
Still, he wrote me. I am now in possession of his phone number. He is really excited about the catastrophe which is to befall him in the morning. I spoke with my aunt and she said kind things I can’t believe.
All I am doing is staying on the road, all I am doing is understanding that the car can’t stop right here, I just have to keep going.