You know how people seem to have these rules in life they swear by? Well I have a few too. Some are very shallow like how I don’t believe in kitten heels or espadrille wedges. Some are more serious like how I don’t believe in kitten heels or espadrille wedges, but I also know that people change. I have read and re-read the ‘Four Agreements’ just as much as the next millennial outchea looking for answers, and still I venture to say that if you have felt the exact same way about something for your entire life, then you have not grown or learned anything at all. My views on abortion, for example, have changed since I first learned what exactly they are way back when. With that being said there is this one rule that has remained a constant in my life. I have never wavered or doubted its power to cause change at all. For as long as I can remember I have always submitted to the belief that when you feel your absolute worst, you should look your best. It is for this reason that if I were to get a divorce, there’s a strong chance you would see me walking around in a vintage Marchesa gown for no reason at all other than me trying to make myself feel better. I didn’t realize I believed in this until this one time in high school when this guy hit me.
Don’t get alarmed. This wasn’t a guy I knew or anything, so much so that I probably could not pick him out of a lineup today. It all started as a huge misunderstanding. He mistakenly thought I had locked him out of class because he was late, and decided to throw paper at me and call me a bitch for the duration of the class period. This was during my more…angry days. I resolved with myself that I would have my brother, boyfriend, or some combination of the two along with their friends see about him post haste. On the way to my next class he was staring me down like he wanted to run up. Again, this was back when I thought I was Billy Badass. I walked up to him and said something to the extent of “you will be seen about after school.” As I was walking away, this poor dumb soul snuck me. I mean he literally came up behind me and punched me directly in the jaw. I was so stunned that I blacked out for at least fifteen seconds and staggered back against the wall. The only clue I had as to what happened was the taste of blood filling my mouth and hearing the crowd that had gathered around saying “oh shit he hit her.” A close friend of my brother’s just so happened to be coming down the hall. He picked me up and carried me to the principal’s office. I would liken him to a linebacker and I weighed maybe 98 pounds at the time. For some inexplicable reason I got suspended from school for five days. Gender inequality is a real bitch and always has been, right? I was so embarrassed to come back to school having to admit I had been knocked out even though it was by a guy. So I wore my finest camel colored boots from Bakers paired with the latest in Express accessories and Baby Phat jeans (judge me, it was the early 2000’s). All anyone could focus on upon my return was that I was fly as shit.
From that experience I learned that it makes me feel better to look better. Judge me if you will but it gets me by when life treats me like a Ciara single on the radio. Some people do yoga, I beat my face and put together a nice look. It soothes me.
Fresh off of an emotional roller coaster with “The Boy” I still found myself hurt and confused on Friday. A part of me wanted to be alone in the comfort of my bed, but I still felt compelled to get out and see some friends. I headed an hour away to another part of Brooklyn to see Chelsea’s new (super cute) place. We had drinks, Snapchats, good convo, and randomly some boiled hot dogs. In my tequila haze they were rather tasty. I then headed to the Meatpacking District for a friend’s birthday gathering. I changed into my laser cut booties before getting off the train. As soon as I walked down the stairs into the red light filled lounge area I regretted being there. I’m still sad and trying not to be as a I get readjusted to the loneliness being single can sometimes bring. Fortunately no one was trying to stay there too long, so we all parted ways shortly after my arrival.
I took the long way to the train. I need to gather my thoughts. Without Kanye or Future or Bryson drowning them out in my ears. I walk through crowds of men yelling the usual bullshit at me which is infuriating. One is even so bold as to grab me. I whip around and tell him “don’t ever put your fucking hands on me.” He raises his hands in surrender, but I still want to kick him in the nads. Frustration and rage are boiling over in my mind, resulting in the wells of my eyes pooling with tears. I lower my head so as to not attract any further unwanted attention. I sense someone coming towards me and I look up to see someone standing at least 6 feet tall wearing platform stiletto boots, a Nicole Kidman level lacefront, and all the makeup Sephora has to offer. There are sparkles beaming off of this substantial person from rhinestones, glitter, and heavily adorned nails. “Oh honey you are eating it tonight! Yaaaassssss,” she says with a few snaps and a deep voice with lisps. I instantly feel better and smile saying, “thank you so much” as she twirls off into the night. I wonder if she’ll get harassed by the same group of men I did, or if they’ll be too afraid of her stature or their own sexuality to say anything to her. The ride home is long, and I am still left with my thoughts. Wondering if he will actually ever call, or if I should call him. This gives me another massive headache, but I’ve been drinking too much to take a Valium. I sleep it off when I finally get home. I wake up stretched across my entire bed, scarf nowhere in sight, to the sounds of my Spanish speaking neighbor’s kids playing the hallway. For the first time in two months he’s not the first thing on my mind when I wake up. All I’m wondering is: what will I wear today?