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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Fitting Demons
I've been doing a lot of aimless wandering these days, noticing airplanes, big jets, circling the city as they wait for clearance to land. (And if my life were a dream, how would I interpret it?) I've been doing a lot of driving these days, listening to Outkast on the cd player, putting hundreds of miles on the car, wishing always on palindromic odometer readings. (Wishing for what? I always used to wish for everything to be okay, now I wish for other things, bigger things.) I've been shopping a lot. Too much. But I don't spend any money. Instead, I go into stores and look at all the clothes that will fit me now. I can hold up a size 10 and look at it and think, I could fit into that. I could fit into it if it weren't so fucking ugly. I could fit into it, but it would never fit into me. It's still all a bunch of ugly crap. I thought that being smaller would automatically equal beautiful clothes, but it's still all ugly shit, lots of cheap and nasty polyester with things like aluminum D-rings and crap hanging off. I thought that being smaller would mean beautiful shoes, but they're still all crap, decorated like tacky Christmas trees with little straps that look trashed just from a few people trying them on. I thought that being smaller would mean that my choices would be expanded in terms of clothes and shoes. But it's still all ugly crap, and I'm pickier than ever about what goes on this body, this body that I've worked so hard to make mine. I look longingly at the "women's" and "plus" sizes, at the racks of clothes that begin with size 14 or 18 and go up to 32--the size that I was a little over a year ago. I see a pretty gold mesh shirt that I would have hated a year ago because I hated clothes, all clothes, hated the way they looked on me. Now I might like it, it's not too loud or too flashy for being a gold mesh shirt. But it's fourteen sizes too big. I could camp in it. I envy the woman who will wear it, only I know she'll hate it too probably, hate it because she hates herself. And do I still hate myself? Is that why I have such trouble finding clothes? No. I hate the clothes. I hate that they're so tacky. I hate that they don't have any sense of sophistication, or any element of simplicity. So I look and look and look and buy nothing. I wear my jeans and my black t-shirts from Old Navy (which are already coming apart at the seams after fewer than a half-dozen washings, the cheap things). I wear my Docs, and get sick of untying and retying them just to try on the closest things to classic pumps that the shoe stores offer. And I come home empty handed. Right now nothing fits. Nothing fits still. Still nothing fits at all.
More lies:
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