Mind Circus

She wore her vanity upon her head like a crown of thorns. It pained her, she said, to have men carelessly throw their eyes on her and selfishly leave them there. It pained us more to only be able to look. Her suffering was not dealt by the helpless stares and bashful smiles, but by the monotonous blows of the morning regime. The face poured out of 3 bottles, the lips she mixed like a chemist and painted on. For an hour each morning, she’d separate her lashes with the tip of a sewing needle—lash by lash, so each one was defined in mascara. Each day, with a delicate and clinical hand, she’d pull them apart with the little spear. Every one beautiful, everyone alone.

She had a way of walking in the office, like a ship coming into a harbor. You’d crane your neck out of whatever cabin or cubicle or cage you were in, just to see the event of her walking away. The gentle sashay of hips that could promise so much, but never fulfill. She had click click clicked her heels down these halls for almost a year, but it never lost its luster. Each step was like the first, and oh, how’d you wish those satin clicks would stop outside your door. They rarely did. Mostly they would trace an audible map that would lead you to the powder room. In front of a mirror, a warm and empty space scented with No. 5, just the faintest powder clinging to the mirror.

The day she went missing, well, I can’t say it was a shock. Creatures like that don’t exist long—they can’t exist long. If you stare at a face enough you start to see the wrinkles. The spell would be broken, and we’d realize it was just human, decomposing a little each day. She’s doing that now, they say. Maybe in a field, who knows. I like to think her bones were pretty too. Solitary, smooth and white, admired by the sky and the vultures. Such a shame, they say, all that wasted beauty. But it was never wasted; we stole it. In every wanting glance, in each passing whisper, in every lonely night, tangled in our own desperate sweat and sheets. We stole her beauty and never said a word.

And now it’s gone.

I had my first belly dancing class yesterday. My mom did it in her youth, my aunt was an instructor, and I watched a lengthy performance with an Egyptian belly dancer in Cairo last year, chatting about her moves and background while overlooking the Nile. All of which of course means I am not only qualified to belly dance, but sure to be amazing at it. I have a genetic disposition to be a prolific belly dancer.

Ha-ha.

In a schism of 16 year olds and 60 year olds, I awkwardly brought my lonely 20 something self to the center of the dance floor at the Rec Center. The mirrors on every wall made it easier to avoid looking at yourself altogether, and let you see if everyone else was stumbling and sweating as bad as you were. Our instructor, who looked like an expired Lady Ga Ga, started us fast, and did not pause until the hour and 15 minutes had ended.  My stomach felt like little scimitars were stabbing me, as I stopped the prancing to catch my breath more than once. I galloped back and forth across the floor, never on beat. I couldn’t use two parts of my body at once—it was either hips shaking or shoulders rolling, not both, Lady. A few times I laughed at the image of myself in the mirror, like a robot rolling along with a loose screw, Danger Will Robinson! Danger! But eventually, I just let go and did whatever felt natural. This meant I went left when the class went forward. An extra shimmy. Spontaneous Monkey-In-A-Barrel-Arms. I like to think that it doesn’t mean I’m not a dancer, or that I don’t have rhythm or beat or balance (oh, I fell over a few times). Rather, I think it’s a sign of greatness. I am Isadora Duncan. I am not missing the steps, I am reinventing. Reinventing with a stumble.

I’m hoping in time I can master the graceful, seductive flouncing of my 60 something instructor, but it is the first class. I should record myself from first class to last and see if things improve. If not, I shall never dance again!…sober.

Here’s to the pursuit of new things.

Tonight me and the little sis went to Max Bloom’s, a 1940s inspired mom & pop coffee shop (I totally recommend if you’re near the OC). While sitting outside admiring the darkened street, a man popped out of the bushes. It was terrifying. Not because he looked like a life endangering threat…though he was dressed to kill. He paired his big jacket and shirt with a pair of itty bitty yellow booty shorts. And I mean itty bitty. He casually peered around the corner, then did an about face, leaving a great mental image of his lacy hot pink Forever21 thong riding up his back. Me and the sis just stared at each other before busting out laughing. It was one of those moments where you’re not sure if you need to get out more or invest in a padlock for the front door.

I have to appreciate getting coffee. Not popping in to grab Starbucks, but actually sitting with someone and sharing a genuine conversation, and absorbing the environment and people (well, some people are best left unabsorbed) in it. As people watched black and white movies or played scrabble inside the vintage decor of Max Bloom’s, me and my little sister shared a few moments together outside. We talked about girlie things and life things, and got to share those precious moments that are trivial in the moment, but comforting and endearing in hindsight. Oh, and and we got to share them with our friend the Cross-dresser in the Night, as our bootylicious friend came back again. Except this time, the smooth criminal that my little sis is, she yelled “Oh! It’s him again!” and then collapsed on the table covering her face and giggling as he passed a foot away from her. It’s kind of hard not to be surprised by the likes of this guy, strutting it down the street in his daisy dukes, so I really can’t blame her. We watched with confused grins as he tracked back up the street, looking for someone or something. It should be noted there’s bars just on other side of this coffee shop. I’m just going to say that explains it.

I’m really starting to appreciate the concept of “getting coffee.” But real coffee, with real people, in this really strange world. All in all, a productive use of caffine. Wonder where the next cup will take us…

See Becky? I told you I’d put you in a blog. It just happens to be in one about a cross dresser.