As I finish weaving the long braid around the right side of my frame, I assess my presentation in the mirror. Fair to middlin’. Choosing another shirt with a cropped rain jacket, I complete my take on the modern native look with combat boots and tribal jewelry.
No mirror needed. Be the best you, I reminded myself. Be-you-tiful.
Okay. Good enough. I spray myself multiple times with Pumpkin Cupcake body mist.
Is that me?
I smell myself again, raising my right shoulder up to meet my mountain nose that can barely smell rotten potatoes. I spray the mist over my torso once more, just to ascertain that my body odor doesn’t radiate stronger than the perfume. If I’m going to bear a strong scent, I’d rather reek of perfume than body odor.
After requesting an Uber ride and half-heartedly jogging down the stairs – I open the fridge, to open a bottle of Biltmore Estate wine, to open my throat, for the evening dose.
Could it be something in my room that smells? I don’t smell myself anymore. Am I having an aura?
Sometimes, before a convulsive seizure, there is a pungent smell lingering in my nostrils. Sometimes.
I toss the wine down the hatch, and as quickly as it slips down my throat, it seems to warm my veins. I need the liquid courage for the quest that lay before me.
Christmas shopping isn’t a journey for the faint at heart. It’s a battlefield that may require you to unsheathe your mighty shopping sword and go into close combat if supplies run low… but the Christmas music could be all it takes to set you over the edge.
Everyone is chitter-chattering superficially in your space – closer than comfort – while the nearby photographer squeezes a squeaky toy or shakes a rattle at a crying baby, sitting on Santa’s lap.
Consumerism consumes, and elitism ensues.
I’m almost grateful to step into a lingerie store, out of the noisy crowd and into the quiet space of loud minds consumed with sex. After handling a few sexy items, I make eye contact with a few consumers without intent. Half-annoyed, half-exhausted – I offer a smile to anyone that peered in my direction, at the risk of being the pervy wanker eyeballing everyone’s skivvies. Most of the women returned my smile. However, the men made it a point to exhibit eye contact with my curves, after ascertaining that I had a visual display of it.
I need another glass of wine.
Further annoyed, I pondered on similar thoughts of the tan, hard jaw-lined, 20-some year old voyeur. Making no display of my desire, I smashed my sexual fantasies of him with a feminist sledgehammer of clarity, beating it into nothing but dust. With a swift realignment, I picked up the dirty, dusty desire from the garden of my mind. I blew it from my hands, into the great wide open outside the mall doors.
Not today, America.