It's
been on my mind what to wear to this show I'm going to tomorrow night. And
every other night I manage to go out, either with my best friend, or alone,
it's always the same tiring debate that constantly runs on in my head. Do I get
made up and accentuate the things that make me feminine, maybe strap on some
heels for once? Or do I go as me--t-shirt and jeans, chucks and no make-up?
This...sounds vapid, I know. This sounds like first world problems. This sounds
like who cares? But the constant buzzing in my head is for a reason.
I
desperately want to look pretty, want to feel pretty. I see girls with their
expertly made up faces, perfectly contoured and accentuated cheekbones with
their eyes painted in a flawless gradient of shadow, and eyeliner executed with
such precision that there are no smudgy hints of failure or second tries. Just
those smooth, black lines, and a coif without a strand out of place that wasn't
intended that way. And every time I see a woman so perfectly put together, so
adult looking, I feel like a 15 year old girl again. I know what's seen as
pretty and I don't feel right that way. It's like the harder I try to be that,
the less I feel like I know what I'm doing, and the more anxiety it produces in
trying to reproduce what it feels like I'm supposed to look like. Not to mention the anxiety once the make up's on of making sure my eyeliner isn't smudging out at the corner of my eye, or whether or not there's lipstick on my teeth.
And
the anxiety wouldn't be so bad if it was just one hyperventilating freak out a
few times a year, but it's that plus the constant visceral discomfort that I
feel when my brain goes into neurotic overdrive, like two rubber bands in my
stomach, vibrating at such a violent frequency that sometimes I can't catch my
breath, and my face flushes hot as my head swims. I feel like I'm going to
puke. Or worse--from the other end kind of worse. I'm usually around a good
deal of people when this happens, you know, being out and about and all, which
amplifies it that much more fearing that someone will notice my escape to the
bathroom to collect myself, or that I'll actually puke and someone will hear
me, or think I'm a head case for suddenly needing to go outside for some
"fresh air."
It's
funny, though; when I was in my twenties a boyfriend of mine had once told me
that in my chucks and tube socks it was as though I was "trying too
hard." And I didn't understand. "Trying too hard to be what?" I
understand that this is probably a popular hipster thing, but put me in a dress
and a pair of tights and I feel like something else. I feel all wrong. It's a
disclaimer I make sure gets run by every guy I meet with whom there may be a romantic
endeavor--"I don't feel sexy in porny lingerie. You know, your typical
fishnets and pumps or whathaveyou. I feel sexier in tube socks. So, as long as
you're cool with that, I'm good."
Some
people might think it's lazy. I get that, but it's simply untrue. In fact the
amount of effort going into the thought of this is anything but lazy. I just
never saw the point of the facade--of feigning the perfection. Make up's cool
and all I guess, to express yourself like you would with the way you dress or
whathaveyou, but think of even the phrase, "made up". Made up. Not
real. Imaginary. And I can get away with it from time to time without feeling
totally terrible, because it's a performance, really--but when you start
performing who you are on a daily basis, maintaining the facade, expending so
much effort in perpetuating the fantasy, then how much of you on a daily basis
is real then? And how much of you is the effort to maintain the facade? How
much time of the real you are you wasting on the lie of you? Wouldn't that time
and effort be better spent painting, or writing, or singing, or just making
something real instead of contrived?
I hear a line from I
Heart Huckabees echoing in my head. "How am I not myself? How am I not myself? How am I not myself?"
The
whole thing just feels like a trap. Then again it's not so easy to meet someone
out and about in your 30's when you've got a full-time job and your life going
on, and they've got theirs, and they've gotta get to the gym tonight, and
you've got a massive stack of dishes waiting for you in the sink. Not to
mention the complications that might've arisen at this stage of life like those
having been divorced, or having kids that would as soon keep promising people
away. It takes a lot for someone to just look at you across the bar and be
intrigued enough to want to talk to you, and then after that to want to
continue spending time with you, especially when they find out you're a head
case like I am. You don't want to just throw the line out there with no bait on
the end. But then what happens when they meet the hook and realize the trick?
And then I'll feel like a fraud all over again. But will jeans and a tee shirt
look lazy? And who the fuck cares? And all the while I'm pained to decide, and the punishment for the wrong decision will be that those rubber bands in my stomach furiously shake, tense and taut and on the verge of puking when I just don't feel right.
What am I versus what am I supposed to be?
