April 3rd, 2011

Lola Rennt


 Not exactly an optimist, I still hoped that there was some truth to the saying that “when God closes a door he opens a window instead.” Well, when God decided to close this particular door he must have been in one of his Old Testament kind of moods. Or maybe he’s just got a peculiar sense of humor. Or he was particularly bored that afternoon. Either way, when God closed this specific door, he not only did not open a window, but rather made sure that the door was bolted shut, stuffed some old rags in the crack under it, and let my lungs slowly fill with the viscous poison of self-improvement.

Take back the control of your life, the TV blares. Gain your confidence back (I never understand why they always imply that you had confidence in the first place). Said control entails squeezing the once-size-16-cellulite-ridden buttocks into a pair of hot pants on the split screen. The magical, wiggling, whittling ass! The perfect accessory for any girl who needs reassurance in her self-worth! Shrink your ass, save your soul! When your life is falling apart, what you need is not to put it back together but to be able to put your behind back into your high school jeans (as if these are times you really want to relive). And so, first comes the haircut, then the weight loss, then the nose job, then the boob job, then some other kind of job, whatever job, pick-a-job-out-of-the-hat job. Fix me, make me better, nip me and tuck me, deliver me from me and into sheer bliss.

It’s just me now. Alone. Alone with myself I get a magnifying mirror and go to town: a wrinkle here, a blackhead there. I circle problem areas, put up little sticky notes in neon color. Unfortunately neon makes the cellulite stand out more. Never mind the giant train derailment that my life has become, I just want to look good in a bikini.

I endeavor to gain my confidence back. I take back the control of my life. No magical elixirs this time, no big love as deliverance from the stranglehold of daily routine, no absolution on demand in the form of coffee and cigarettes. It’s old school this time: diet and exercise, sweat and tears, baby.

Strapping on my running shoes I pound the conveyor belt of self-improvement towards a better tomorrow when I’ll be able to slather baby oil on my taut abs, and, smiling with a mouthful of veneers, state in a ringing affirmative that all one needs for true happiness to gain back the control of his life and/or his waistline.

Like a snake I shed layers, molting, sloughing off the old me to become a better, newer, shinier me; to glimmer blindingly in the artificial paparazzi sunshine of public opinion; and then to slither more smoothly away, back into my isolation, blinded by the bright promise of a size 25 waist being the ultimate solution to all life’s problems, having to rely on my sense of smell to guide me back into the dung heap of reality.

Layers of old skin peel off gradually to reveal the cold smooth surface of the kind of snake skin that queer Italian designers pray for. Fear is first to go. Then love. Then pain. What is left is perfect and dead. Ice. Diamonds. Confidence gained back by toned gluteus maximus turns to viscous ice cold poison pumping through my veins, filling my lungs, drowning me. I’m the kind of girl that I always thought I’d get dumped for. The kind of me that I would have killed to become. The kind of me that I want to kill.

I’m me, only better. Or with a smaller ass anyway. The kind of ass that will solve all my problems.

- by igetboredatparties