Is this really a good idea?
Like it or not, my outer woman has been getting in touch
with me of late, if still rarely. The accusatory "you have let
yourself go" look meets my vapid gaze face to face in the bathroom
mirror as I brush my teeth. "Go where?" I ask with one hand on my
ample hip, sarcasm and toothpaste dripping from my mouth into a
sink whose sanitation rating is also far below my former standards.
I am very much where I have been for quite some time now,
chronically ill but within easy reach of a number of
visage-enhancing devices if I cared to reach out to them for
assistance.
So, where is the line drawn between being comfortable in
one's own uneven, patchy skin and being a slob, and by whom is this
line drawn? That's what I want to know. At best, the line is
shifting and relative, a matter of perspective, as most things are.
"Outer Beauty" certainly doesn't have the same celestial, new
age-like chime to it as "Inner Beauty," now does it?
As I mentioned, I do brush my teeth, but once a day, not
twice. I don't think my dentist reads anything but his own
investment statements, so I feel I can safely admit this in writing
without risking discovery. However, I am compelled to floss several
times a day due to a neurotic sensitivity to food wedged between
poorly sculpted crowns and the fact that I can do it sitting on my
fanny, even while driving, with the aid of my favorite adaptive
device, a floss pick. I shower every other day, most of the time,
which includes the obligatory underarm shave and swipe of
deodorant, followed by the "life of the edge" portion of my day in
which I risk an ear swabbing just a cotton fiber or two beyond the
manufacturer's safety/CYA guidelines. I shave my legs for doctor
appointments that will likely require hospital gown presentation
and on special occasions if I'm wearing a dress. Makeup is
reserved for events that allow an early bird application, otherwise
my attendance is out of the question, with foundation included only
if specified on the invitation.
Just prior to the liberation, when the last glimmer of
guilt still pressured me to care, my dear friend reminded me of
where we live and suggested I look around the next time we were out
and about. This exercise put to rest the last shred of concern
about my appearance, at least during daylight hours. It's no small
wonder she is my dear friend.
Beyond performing these that I consider to be the basics
of personal hygiene, I have as a matter of self-preservation,
ceased to give a flying rat's rump about the impact of my outer
appearance on the world around me. After all, providing families
with an amusing topic to text about around the dinner table is no
small contribution of society.
Which leads me to the conclusion that some illusions are
better shattered than reflected upon.
