Last night, Emmett and I went out to dinner. Fall was in the air, spectacular awnings of orange leaves, the trees living flames. The old brownstones leaned over us, historic and ancient and classy in the way high-rises can never attempt. Just...intellectual.
At the restaurant, the lights were low and the music was soft. The food isn't very good-runny curry and soggy pan- but it is quiet, and they have good wine. We go there once a month, maybe more- and tonight wasn't every different.
But when I went to the bathroom, I leaned over the sink to perfect my lipstick. A girl clattered out of the stall behind me. Clattered, her shoes clicking, her ankles bending, her faux gold jewelry swinging against the pancake makeup on her cheeks. Her skinny jeans were super tight, and cut into her stomach. Bulges. Ouch. She looked freezing cold, chilled to the very bone, in nothing but a silky camisole that whispered over her goosebumps. Every feather light bone in her shoulders was painfully obvious.
And then I thought. Of myself, of how I used to be, of society. Of the things we do for beauty. We pluck, we wax, we shave and watch the blood from where the razor slipped swirl down the drain. We exfoliate and scrub and spray, we crimp and curl and burn and tint. We spend a whole day smelling like dye and hospital rooms so our legs will be smooth for date night.
And it isn't bad. It isn't good. It's a lifestyle, the way I used to live.
For what? I was dressed in brown Abercrombie corduroys, a gray henley sweater, a black wool peacoat, and a scarf. I wore comfy UGGs. I hadn't shaved my legs in 3 days, and my only makeup was mascara, foundation, and lipstick. My hair was just...there. Around my shoulders, being brown, the roots growing out. Later that night, Emmett would feel my stubby legs. He would kiss my hair, and not care about the 5 week roots. He would love me anyway. Society might not, but Emmett would. And who really cares what society thinks? You can't please everybody.
"Stop!" I wanted to shout to the old me, to the women beside me. "Put down the razor!" I wanted to take their hands, pull them outside to eat crappy Indian food, to look at the brownstones, to feel the wind redden their cheeks and tease their scarfs. I wanted to take them to my favorite bakery, lick the icing of moon cookies, eat a Napoleon and write, watching the people go by, alone and not conscious of it. I want to put pens in their hands, food in their stomachs, joy in their hearts. I wanted all this, for them and for me and for everybody. "Stop!" I wanted to say. "Come out with me! Let me show you the crythansemums!"
But I didn't. I put my lipstick in my purse, and I looked sideways. "Hey," I said, giving a half smile. She looked up, tweezers poised, plucking away what little was left of her eyebrows. "Have a nice night."
Emmett and I walked back, hand in hand, together against any wind and any strife. We laughed loud, we tripped over our clunky boots, and we tilted our heads back to howl at the moon.
