My hair is a wild mass of frizz, my clothes don’t match, I have no makeup on and am pale, I have dark circles under my eyes, and I walk around in a daze…but I’m not a crackhead. I am attributing these features to my current state of mind: The State of I Don’t Give a Shit. Here is why…
My face broke out like a plague (don’t want to clog my pores with makeup), I’m down to the grandma panties in my clean-clothes-supply, I had a dream that none of my lights would turn on in my apartment and a drunk guy was spitting on me while he was talking to me in my bathroom (didn’t sleep well). But the icing on the cake (mmmm, cake…) is that I’m just tired of fixing myself up. What is the point? Is it because “you never know when you’re going to meet the one”? Well, let me tell you something…the “one” doesn’t work with me, and he doesn’t play Serbian music on Tuesday nights, and he doesn’t work at Taco Bell that I frequent every week…so I am free to rebel against being pretty and presentable.
AND…I am starting to really believe that there isn’t a “one”. But…if by some small fraction of a chance there is…he’s going to have to look at me like this. Because I have no intentions of looking “pretty” anymore.
Who decides what’s pretty anyway? Cover Girl? Maybelline? Victoria Secret? I’ll let you in on a little secret…they are rich, and they want your money so that they can become richer. Oh, you think the men downtown buying you drinks decide what’s pretty? Guess what? They just want to get in your pants…they’re not looking at your hair that you spent an hour on, or your new MAC glitter eyeshadow…in fact…they’re probably married.
I’ll tell you what’s pretty. Actually, I’ll tell you what’s beautiful. My mom after she’s spent all day cleaning the house and running errands and making dinner and now she’s sleeping on the couch curled up in a blanket. My aunt who’s never worn a drop of makeup in her life, yet when she speaks of her husband her face blushes a radiant pink and her eyes light up.
At the concert the other night there was an elderly couple sitting next to my brother and me. They looked to be in their late seventies, and as soon as they sat down, the man put his arm around his wife. His arm did not move during the entire concert. They swayed back and forth in their seats, and when the woman really liked a song she clapped as hard and fast as she could, smiling from ear to ear. Every line and every wrinkle was uplifted and all that every single person that walked by was able to see was her beauty. People stopped walking, stopped drinking their beers, stopped yelling and laughing with their friends…just to look at her.
If I’m going to work my ass off to get pretty in the morning, I want it to be that kind of pretty.