to be wild, or how i won 30 cents in atlantic city

i wore gray and black yesterday. a thrifted blouse with pretty pleats that, when the shoulder pads were removed (for the love of all things vintage, what purpose did shoulder pads ever serve?), was actually quite lovely.

and as i pulled my paper from the corporate printer, someone behind me said, oh, is this the week of gray and black? i looked down and yes. i was wearing the same combination. this time, zippered black pants about ten years old and a bejeweled gray top from express. the one i bought in high school. before our mall was bought out and slowly, one by one, the stores started packing up shop. express was one of the first to go.

it's safe, i suppose. the always handy, always pleasing, palette of gray. but then again, maybe i'm the safe one. you see the picture above? it's me in atlantic city. i gambled $2.00. i lost $1.70. i'm not cut out for the risk. the chance. (plus, the slot machines were very confusing, there were no instructions posted anywhere and all i did was press buttons.)

but what my co-worker didn't know is that i, too, can be a bit rebellious. but it might look different than most.

i feel wild when i wear a new bright lipstick. when i catch myself in the rearview at just the right moment in the afternoon and think, yes. that shade is yours.

when i forget that i'm tired, that it's been a long day, and that i have work in the morning, and go sit in a dark theater with robert. the one downtown without stadium seating, so you really can't see anyway. sliding my hand under his arm and just listening.

when i laugh uncontrollably at something that's not even that funny, and when i dance in the kitchen at twilight.
when i walk down our old country lane and look at pablo running headfirst into the breeze.
when the mail comes.
when the morning comes.
when the flannel is still warm from the dryer.

there are many things that bring me alive. that make me feel sunny. even if i choose wardrobe staples that are decidedly stormy.

the pains and gains of womanhood

she seemed glad to see me when i appeared in the kitchen, and by watching her i began to think there was some skill involved in being a girl.

-to kill a mockingbird

 xxxx

it happened on wednesday. standing in line for my frappe. white chocolate mocha with a shot of caramel. at a new coffee shop. across the street from the post office where my dad works. a little lunch break reprieve.

i felt a tiny hand on my shoulder, and turned around. a middle-aged woman, with graying hair, modest slacks and an oversized sweater looked through her glasses into my eyes. "i just don't know how you do it," she spoke to me in her southern voice not unlike my own. "those high heels. don't they hurt your feet?" 

i looked down at my shiny brown pumps, a little bit of toe cleavage emerged, then sunk back into the leather, as the tips of the shoes made a sharp point. she was right. they were uncomfortable. too high. too pointy. a bit too small. "i don't know..." i trailed off. "the things you do for fashion, i guess!" i smiled to close the conversation, grabbed my sweating coffee, and hurried out the door, careful to walk precisely, to demonstrate to her that i could, indeed, navigate my way on the cobblestone wearing these awful shoes.

it happened again on thursday.

i came home yesterday evening and even before kissing robert or rubbing pablo's ears, i unzipped my dress. and took a deep breath. for the first time all day. a real, good, from-the-gut inhale. and it felt delicious.

because all day, i had squeezed my upper body into this outfit that hugged me, squeezed me, controlled me.

robert just shook his head. "i don't know why you girls torture yourself like this" he said as he helped me lift the dress over my curls.

but what he doesn't know, what he can never realize, is that i do it because i want to.

because that dress was from h&m. it was silver and purple. flowy and ruffly on the bottom. only seven dollars on sale. one of my favorite new finds. heck, one of my favorite new dresses period. and i was willing to suffer a little for it, i suppose.

because femininity is sacred, and takes many different forms.

for some, it's sinking into a bubble bath, nose deep. it can be cooking. dancing. wearing your husband's button-down shirt. rocking babies.

it can also be playing sports. getting muddy. dirty. sweaty. 

for me, it's all these things. and more.

and on some days, especially days like this week--with all the stress over family health, starting graduate school, and work pressure that came with it--yes, it was high heels and a terribly uncomfortable but ultimately beautiful dress.

and who cares if no one understands or appreciates it besides me? that's what makes it special.

and, i suppose, pretty skillful.

you'll be the first to spin your story

after my shower last night, i looked in the mirror.

the tiny, silver rimmed one cleverly masking the medicine cabinet. with its still damp toothbrush.

and i took a second to examine my eyes. the curve of my lips, the shape of my forehead. the height of my cheekbones and the depths of my pupils. i tried to look subjectively. from an outside perspective. and i almost accomplished it. for a split second, i saw a stranger. past the familiar, the usual and the comfortable. into an alien state of out-of-body consciousness. i forgot my favorites. my likes and dislikes. my preferences and tastes. and just saw a girl. with wet hair in a bun and smudged mascara.

then my glance turned upward. to the tiny crevice emerging just slightly from the top of my left brow. a tiny pock mark no bigger than the head of a pushpin. a light scar from the time i had chickenpox in elementary school. in my impatience and utter agony, i had scratched at the surface of my skin, and everyone knows you don't scratch chickenpox. you just don't.

and i returned. to myself, the evening, the present.

because it was quite possible, that at that very moment, another girl was doing the exact same thing, wet hair and all. maybe in paris. maybe in ecuador. maybe right down the road. there was a chance that her hair was wet, that she had just taken a deliciously hot bath. that her mascara was leaking.

but i knew for certain, beyond any doubt creeping in with the moon, that no one was running her finger across a tiny, circular imprint just above her brow. jaggedly round, with a raised right side.

that was just me. just courtney.