Vanity

He grinned and asked me for the millionth time:

A- So what’s a vanity appointment?

I hadn’t planned on him clinging to this term so tenaciously and was fresh out of responses or quick evasion. There are times I just want to lay my head down and cry these annoying feelings, away.

Or level him with the truth to the point that he stops making it so much harder for me.

J- Oh just another appointment designed to make me feel better, because I’m stupid in love with you and think I might die from the frustration.

Ok, maybe honesty is not the best policy.

But…

I’ve waxed, painted, shaved, sweated and augmented this body of mine to the point of no return. My beautiful Songbird is going to bleach him out of my hair later today. I have some ridiculous spider-leg-like eyelash extensions that have given me an incredible break from the daily grind of eyeliner and I’ve made peace with my body aching from the exercise that soothes the misery the absence of his body, creates.

A- So what do you do for a vanity appointment?

J- Shhh….. don’t worry about it. It’s not important.

A- Gynecologist?

J- Umm, that’s not vanity, that’s necessity.

A- Massage? Hair?

J- That’s next week.

I’m not kidding. My self care movement is more self-soothing than pampering. I’m not spoiling myself, I’m looking for any and everything that might help ease this overwhelming burden.

Insanity is the act of doing the same thing twice and expecting different results. I surpassed insanity a few months ago. I’m a glutton for punishment and I absolutely should not see him. But I do.

I tried yoga last week, and just felt fat and inflexible. Not soothed and with far too much quiet time to obsess over the sexual highlight reel of him and I. Not good. No more yoga, thankyouverymuch.

I tried going to bed early to quiet the urge to text him, only to wake up at 2 in the morning, with a head full of words and paralyzed hands. Constantly tempted to write him into my sheets, with my mother in my head:

M- Manifest what you want. You need to remember who you are. You’re a powerful woman and you need to focus on that and it’ll get easier.

In light of all the starving children, abused animals and current political dumpster fire, it seems awfully shallow to beg the universe for a man.

But….I’ve had some mortifyingly honest moments with him. I have begged and I’m not at all ashamed to admit it, nor do I believe for a second that it won’t happen again.

I sat across from him and his freshly shaved neck, my mouth dry and my panties…. not. Doing my best to not make eye contact while asking about his week. Making small talk and avoiding the crackling awareness between the two of us. Not trusting myself to speak while making a concentrated effort to breathe through my mouth because he smells so good I want to die a little. My train of thought has derailed. I laugh nervously. I don’t know who this lady is, but she’s beyond reach. I don’t trust her to speak.

Looking at him is like staring at the sun because he’s so pretty it hurts. Spending time with him makes me sympathetic to drug addicts. I get it. As bad as the fallout hurts, I keep going back for another fix. He knows it. It’s written all over my face and it’s silently acknowledged. I’m ignoring the fact that he told me he’s talking to someone else because ignorance is so much more blissful than the painful truth.

Just call me Captain Obvious of I-Don’t-Want-To-Think-About-That Island. I’ll be over here sipping my delusional cocktail, ignoring the quickly approaching Tsunami.

Oh and painting myself better… one vanity appointment at a time.

m

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