My manfriend can always tell when I’m having a horrific day, because I look fucking fantastic.
The conversation usually goes like this:
Manfriend: “Hello, sweetie. You look fancy.”
Me: “Thank you. I try.”
Manfriend: “What’s wrong?”
…because clearly that’s adult.
Seriously, though. Whenever I’ve had a shit day, I’m worn out, or some troll has decided to come out of their cave and throw poop on my life, I pull out my red lipstick/flouncy dress/biker boots/all of the aforementioned and pretend none of it gets to me while secretly pouting like a WASPy socialite with her convertible keys confiscated by daddy. Or something.
Women are expected to put on such a fresh face when adversity looms; how pathetically dated. I decided to take the theme and make it purposeful and pertinent. My war paint, battle armor, the weird fan thing on the acid-spitting dinosaur from Jurassic Park.
AREN’T MY FRILLS AND SPIT SO PRETTY
or Galadriel’s “all shall love me and despair” rant:
Since everything I own is in storage during my job/apartment hunt, I have no access to most of my stuff. I feel like a Bird of Paradise without my feathers. In many ways, I am my outward form, multi-varying as it may be. It is my art, the highest expression of my self and soul and all that I am. I feel muted, drained of vibrancy. It is my last and best defense against a world that doesn’t care and doesn’t not care.
I think this excerpt of a recent post explains it best:
In a recent documentary, Tom Ford explained this scene from A Single Man, where his distraught protagonist George drags himself out of bed in order to get dressed. The scene wasn’t in the original book Ford based his movie on, but he put it in because it related to him. When he’s in a deep and dark depression, one of the things he enjoys doing is putting on a suit. “It might be false,” he said in the documentary, “but I feel like if I shine my shoes, put on a tie, and make myself look as good as I can possibly look, I feel better. That somehow it’s armor; it’s a ritual that I go through.”
“Looking in the mirror, staring back at me, isn’t so much a face as the expression of a predicament; just get through the goddamn day.” – George, A Single Man