She's standing there, at the entry to the grocery store. One of those Williamsburg hipsters, with hair so blond in could be white and long bangs that hide her eyes. Wearing silver Doc Martin's and sheer pantyhose with holes in them, and a big dark gray hoodie that may, or may not have a skirt underneath.
I can't see her face, which makes me put the most beautiful face on her in my imagination. Or maybe, non at all, maybe just an idea of beauty, a promise of anonymous coolness that I can never hope to replicate.
It's not my skin, darker, more wrinkled, blemished, it's not my glasses, it's not those few extra pounds, or more then a few. It's not that I'm older, it's not the glasses, or maybe it's all of the above. Maybe it's that never in my life I felt like a cool person and that on me, pantyhose with holes in them would look like carelessness, while on her it looks stylish and cool.
I'm standing there, for a split second, looking at her. With my bag of tampons and yogurt and low fat icecream for Ned. In an H&M sweater that last year felt like a cood fashion choice and at that moment, feels like an old lady's cardigan. In my old sneakers, a pair of jeans that all of a sudden feels both too buggy and too revealing. Feeling that role of fat around my belly. my thighs.
It's strange to move from "I'm too old for THIS Shit" to "I AM too old for this shit".
1 comment:
Very familiar, this feeling. Even when our young bodies were unmarked, gravity-defying and beautiful, we hated them and covered our "flaws". When we did put on a show of self-confidence, it was only to fool ourselves in order to fool others.
Your beauty, in it's current state, is perfect. We have to remind each other (just as I wish I could have informed my younger self).
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