31 July, 1998

Inevitability

I push the plastic curtain to the side and bend to flip the running water to "shower". The sound of water gurgling down into the pipes switches to the hiss of spray and I step in under the downpour. Steam rises up all around, the hot liquid plasters my hair to my forehead, shoulders and down my spine. It is so long now that it tickles the small of my back. It's heavy, hard to lift my head against the weight of the water-rich strands.

The knots in my back slowly start to release under the heat of the flood. I run sensitized fingertips over the surface of my face. In this state I can feel every bump and anomaly, every over-sized pore, the ridge of irritated cells under each eye where my glasses rest, right above my cheekbones. Soap, scrubbed gently into the skin removes these traces of the inevitable march of time. I wonder how many years I have left before this, one of my few acknowledged beauties, begins to crumple and fade.

Good skin, a clear "peaches & cream" -- as my grandmother says -- complexion, has been one of the few blessings of physical beauty which has stayed with me over the course of my young life. I did not suffer as did so many of my teen peers did, from massive outbreaks of acne. The only problem I ever had limited itself to a brief outbreak of eczema around my mouth when I was twelve years old. It came back of course, but only on my fingers. Never again my face.

Beauty -- or the lack thereof -- has always been somewhat of a sore point with me. I always felt like an ugly duckling -- who doesn't -- as I went through the throes of adolescence. I emerged into adulthood with a pronounced lack of diligence where my appearance is concerned.

I have always attributed the clarity of my complexion to the fact that I do not wear make-up on a daily or even weekly basis. Every couple of months, I gussy myself up. I slip on the contacts that I begged for when I was sixteen and set my coke-bottle glasses aside. I dab a few traces of pale pink powder on my cheeks and eyelids. I touch up my lips with lipstick which is so close to my actual lip color that it is nearly impossible to distinguish it. The foam curlers come out, leaving behind a mass of untameable ringlets which I pile on my head in an old fashioned chignon. I may leave a few curls to dangle around my face the way romantic young ladies in my childhood literature did, to "soften" their look.

I slip on a pretty dress, condescend to wear hose, slip on an impractical pair of shoes. Then I look at the stranger in the mirror. The face which looks back at me is utterly alien. It actually looks pretty, slightly flushed with the excitement of wearing nice clothes and the idea of going out for a special evening. My jewelry is simple but complements the outfit nicely. Though I am still plump and full-figured, I look good.

This takes relatively little effort. Perhaps fifteen minutes to effect an almost magical transformation from mundane to princess. But I am not even willing to take that much time out of my regular day for it. I operate under an extreme disregard for my appearance now that I am a "young professional". Every morning I slap my thick glasses onto my face, turning my eyes into a parody of an owl's gaze. I wear loose baggy clothing which does nothing for my figure out of a keen desire to be comfortable at all costs. I stuff my hair back carelessly in a clip and stride out to face the day, naked of any kind of mask or illusion for my facial features.

I tell myself that I don't care how I look. This is patently untrue. I live with a sort of Catch-22 about my looks: I do nothing to enhance them, yet have extreme body-image issues which come up to haunt me at the most inconvenient moments.

When my mother asks me why I don't take more care with my appearance, I think for a moment then simply answer "Because I don't need to." Sabs loves me the way I am and most of the time, I really don't care. I care when I am getting dressed in the morning and catch a glimpse of unsightly folds of plump flesh. I care when I try to stuff myself in a bathing suit. Those times are sheer torture.

Sabs always tells me that I am beautiful. In his eyes, I am the most beautiful creature on the face of the planet. Such is the nature of love.

I know that I should make an effort, now while I'm still young, to give myself a better body shape. I should exercise more, eat less nice-tasting foods, and generally just take care of myself better. Inevitably the few assets I have will fade away in the inexorable process of aging. I can see it already in the one one white hair which mars the smooth swathe of reddish-chestnut locks, or the slight creases in my forehead.

The signs of mortality are just around the corner ... but I am too busy living my life, to really pay attention.