When I'm done, I feel so accomplished. I put together a cute outfit. I curl my hair. I go grocery shopping. I buy healthy food. Good food. I smile at the cashier. I hand over my card, admiring how put together I look with my nicely manicured nails.
Look at that girl! Did you see how nicely painted her fingernails were? She must have everything figured out.
The charade ends when the paint starts chipping. My little burst of motivation never carries over into upkeep. It would take me 30 seconds to remove the polish. But I don't. I glance at my hands, and the chipping polish nags at me.
Fix me. Fix me. Fix me. Take care of me. Do something!
I'm really good at ignoring things.
So I do. I ignore it. I stay up way too late, sitting bleary eyed on my computer. I hit the snooze button way too many times. When I finally roll out of bed in the morning, I throw on an outfit I put together from a pile on the floor, ignore my messy hair, and go to work. I don't bother to shower. I skulk through the store. I buy Oreos and Cheetos. I avoid eye contact with everyone. I can't wait until I'm home. Safe inside my house.
Don't look at me. Don't see me. Don't see me for what I really am.
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"Are you being healthy?"
The question come from where he sits on the bed, the lamp on the nightstand casting a shadow across his face. His blue eyes are fixed on my half naked form at the end of the bed where I stand in my underwear, searching for my sports bra.
"What?" I play dumb.
"Are you being healthy?" He repeats, his eyes narrowing just slightly. Just enough to tell me that he's not fooled.
"Of course I'm being healthy." I say and my lips curl upwards in that maddening, panicky smile.
"Are you sure?" He sounds desperate suddenly, almost frightened. Like he wants to believe me, but he doesn't.
"Yes." It comes out too emphatically to be believable. I scowl.
"What did you eat today?" He frowns.
I don't even have to lie. I ate like a cow.
"A muffin for breakfast. Leftover spaghetti squash for lunch. And you saw me eat dinner." I rattle it off, frustrated. But not at him.
He stares at me, frowning. I find my sports bra and yank it roughly over my head.
"You're so skinny." He finally says, and he sounds sad.
Hi, I've just started following you, discovered you through Eve, actually. :) I love the way you write.
ReplyDeleteI just wanted to say, I relate to everything in this post. The nailpolish especially... I could buff it off, or touch it up, but I usually end up chewing it off and eating it over the course of a week, which seems significant, on a deep psychological level.
I always liked the irony, how perfect girls always have perfect nails, studded with gemstones and painted bright. And then mine, chewed, bloody, and confused, in variable lengths. :p
Hello Faye! Thank you so much for the compliment! It made my night! I love the irony too. Perfect girls=perfect nails. I'm so glad I found someone else like me. Here's to being imperfect! I bet we're more interesting anyways. :)
Deleteoh my gosh the nail thing. I totally relate. You can tell what kind of state I'm in by looking at my nails.
ReplyDeleteEvery time you say you relate, I feel a little less crazy. Thank you, Penny. :)
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