thoughts from a bathtub

last night, i lowered myself down into the bathtub. it was late and the hallway was perfectly dark and i left the lights off. and as my feet became wet, i felt them sting and burn. they are blistered, these painted toes of mine. these piggies i shoved into the narrow recesses of my new flats. i sat there and looked at them, peachy against the steel of the faucet.

and i stayed there long after the water cooled and sunk down a bit. sometimes i do that, you know. just sit in the tub and let the cool rush in and think. there's really only so much one can do in there, so after a while it's easy to give in to daydreaming and remembering.

i bought new flats on saturday. at my favorite thrift store on a cloudy morning. they are too small. it's just that simple and just that hard. simple because i love them. hard because i shoved myself into them and wore them to work. hard because i had to take them off just to walk to my car. hard because when i got home at six, all i wanted to do was hurl them across the linoleum floor and watch them slam into the television stand.

and women do this all the time. mold, shove, squeeze, adjust and shift. our bodies. our clothes. our expectations. in an effort to please? perhaps. out of vanity? certainly sometimes. but more often than not, it comes from our overwhelming desire to please. to fit a mold and fill a niche. yesterday, i wanted to be the girl in the cute flats. and today i am limping on bare feet.

so i sat until i shriveled. and let the skin loosen and float. and promised myself tomorrow would be different. that tomorrow i would let myself breathe, from my muddled head to the tips of my beet red toes.