I wore blush for you today. I applied to it my cheeks, in the same delicate swirling motion that I’ve seen displayed over and over again on porcelain faces far more deserving of polish than my own. For you see, some people have the innate grace to bear the burden of beauty; some people have the strength to hold their heads high and most graciously display their aesthetic gifts to the world. Others, myself included, can muster only enough courage to walk down the street without tripping. But I did manage to walk to your side today. (It’s not that important if I tripped …) You didn’t notice. I could pretend I wore the blush for myself; that I wanted to look good…but the problem with that theory is it’s complete revolution around your approval. I only wanted to look presentable for the sake of satisfying your eyes.
I stood in the mirror, moments prior to my journey into your shadow’s shade. I stared, unblinking, at the temporary reflection in the smudge-covered glass. All I saw was a deep, yet discrete, empty mass of space where self-esteem should have claimed reign, majestically ruling under layers of protective skin…skin that was soon pigmented with “Mauve Petals.” I smiled extremely wide, cautiously applying the blush in attempt to equally distribute the powder over my cheeks. But I wasn’t quite sure where my cheeks ended and my insecurities began…so I might have missed some spots.
But you didn’t notice. Perhaps that is the point, though. To be subtle and at the same time manage to be alluringly intoxicating in this dangerous game of dress up. Suppose that I had applied too much, creating the image of a circus clown. Surely you would have noticed then, but that would have been horrific. Another notch on my bedpost life of accident inspired movements and breaths caught in the claws of choking lungs. And I think I’ve already reached my capacity for embarrassment today. ( I did trip walking to you…twice, actually. But it doesn’t really count if it was over your own shoe.)
I suppose that if you didn’t notice my blush, you also didn’t notice the many problems I was hoarding in the recesses of my mind. Which is great because some problems can’t be brushed over with a $5.46 container of ground up chemicals, dyed and perfumed to project confidence. Confidence probably wouldn’t be the color of petals, though, or smell like stale dust particles floating around in abandoned attics. I think confidence would smell like you…a scent of safety and security.
Maybe if I would have tinted my skin with more confidence today, I would have looked like a china doll with a baby face. I’d have exquisitely painted features that exude so much vibrancy you wouldn’t notice the frail skin beginning to crack from the constant strain of smiling. But my problems would cost more than $5.46 to fix anyway…And no convenience store would offer therapy because needing therapy isn’t very convenient.
Eventually you walked away. You weren’t being rude; I’m sure you have a fairly normal life to return to that doesn’t involve a fear of the wrong shade of manufactured blush. I stared at the ground while you left…which, I admit, is a bad habit. But bad habits are hard to break, especially if I secretly hold onto the hope that you find it charming, even if it’s slightly pathetic. Anyway…when I looked down, I noticed a smudge of blush on my jeans. And I’m sure you noticed that. I know you had to.
It was a small, yet blazingly present, signal that I’m intentionally seeking your approval. I frantically wiped it off, but then the powder attached itself to my fingers as if crawling into the very fiber of my existence. And now I know that you’ve caught me red handed. I’m so stupid. How could I be so utterly, revoltingly stupid? I’m positive that the blush adorning my cheeks at the current moment is of the natural variety.
When I bought the blush, the cool, collected lady behind the counter told me it wasn’t my color. She said it was a mass produced pink that generic girls were wearing in hopes of growing up too soon. But I didn’t listen to logic when I had the irrational mission of impressing you scorched in my brain. She was right, however. “Mauve Petals” is not my color. The flame-hued shade of shame is.
I left the spot where we…(I am very fond of that pronoun and the way it lingers in my mind…we…you and me minus my vulnerability)… were sitting moments ago to wash off my blush with water. Water is clear, like rejection. Rejection wouldn’t have a color; it would be as transparent as the emptiness that accompanies it. But before I go, you should know you owe me $5. 46 for the ineffectively packaged confidence I wasted on you. You probably wouldn’t have noticed that fact…you never notice. But I will collect it one day when I can manage to walk to you without tripping over doubt and tangled laces. Oh, and I am never playing dress up again, not even if I could breathe in your confidence or paint on attractiveness. It’s become far too dangerous.