|
So I stumble down the stairs; my mother is seated at the dinner table, reading back-to-school flyers. As I walk by, I notice her staring at me ... no, at my left breast.
Myself: "Uh. Mom? What are you staring at?" I almost let "Something good?" cross my mind. Her: "You need to wear a bra if you're going to wear that camisole out."
I pluck at it. Myself: "It's built-in. That's the beauty of it." Her: "Yes, but ..." Myself: "But ...?" Her: "I can see your ... nipples right through it." So she was examining both. For a split second, I am unable to think. Like many other people who have parents, I usually wish for mine to never, ever in my presence acknowledge the existence of sex, or any organ traditionally considered stimulating in the act of sex. Someday, I may leave this juvenile mindset behind me, but I really hope not, since as I grow older, so do my parents. Finally, I look. You can't "see" them, precisely, but the general shape is perceptible. I collect myself and assume a breezy tone. Myself: [Breezily] "They'll settle down." I disappear downstairs to the basement and hyperventilate for a minute or two. Shortly thereafter, I emerge. Myself: "See? Gone." It is a moment of great conflict for me, as I have this immutable instinct to always be proven right, but simultaenously there is neither instinct nor desire within to be pointing out my chest area to my mother for scrutiny. I am incredibly fortunate that the single male relative within earshot is Wesley, who is seven years old and engrossed with the arrangement of his toy trains. Her: "Huh. How did that happen?" Myself: "Uh. I guess I was lying on my belly upstairs watching TV, and you know. Stuff." No matter how I try, I can't force out the words "chafing" and "erect." Her: "Sometimes also, when it's cold--" Me: "Hey, look! Highlighters are on sale!" Detail of Walter H. Ruff's 16th century engraving of Archimedes:  Two words: Yow. Za. Ruff must've had a big crush on the Greek.
A conversation:
Me: [Hoping to boost my ego by hearing another's tales of woe, in my usual diabolical manner] "Looking forward to school?" For levity, in an even more evil plan to seem less evil: "It must keep you sane, in some ways, at least." Him: "Yeah, actually I'm really looking forward to school.... classes are fun, and I have a cool roommate, an awesome apt... so yeah.... for the most part I'm looking forward to it." He also goes to school in Montreal, Québec, is good-looking, and has lots of friends and a pretty girlfriend, but he obviously knows I already know. [Sounds of plan crashing around ears] Me: "Cool." You know you've reached a new, needlessly complex stage of your life when you begin to be able to perceive different shades of black.
It all feels so right when no one's there to watch, me slouched on the couch in front of the ol' idiot box, chomping down on greasy, salty chips, wiping my fingers liberally on the crinkled shorts I've been wearing for three days straight, scratching when and where I need to, staring into the bluish glow until my eyes cross, not noticing how not a single thing on four hundred channels is able to hold my interest. It feels so OK.
Then some sort of acquaintance -- whom I hold in light but sufficient esteem so that his judgment matters, and who is also a former object of surreptitious affection -- comes cruising back from a couple of weeks at his cottage on the east, east coast and asks how I've been holding on since his absence. Then it doesn't feel OK. While he spins images of painting rusty walls in cut-off shorts, warm family dinners, and breezes of fresh sea air, guilt slams into me; from fourteen days of my own life, I am struggling to pluck out and put together two choice words. Burdened, I put a light-hearted spin on the lethargic half-month, smiling when he laughs, but a distinct weight -- or void -- remains in my chest. We sink into separate silences, his humming with self-satisfaction, and mine simmering with self-pity.
Huh. I collected my load of lemony-fresh laundry yesterday and the numbers just aren't coming up right. The tally:
4 pairs of panties
11 bras Eh?
While we were at IKEA (yes, snicker and sneer to your little black heart's content, but despite their Swedish origins, they offer a nice variety of affordable furniture and at least on the nine Swedes we inspected, do not have webbed toes, contrary to popular belief), my friends and I enthusiastically fondled -- indeed, one could have argued we were in fact molesting -- a number of down-filled duvets. As our fingers caressed the soft, giving covers, I was sure that nearby mothers were covering their children's ears to our murmurs and moans of approval. It was strictly a PG affair (which was teetering on a PG-13 as the four of us piled onto a rather lovely and comfortable day bed together and giggled lots).
Toasty in the winter and light in the summer, one of life's underrated luxuries is a quality duvet. Before bunkering down for zzz's, I love the pre-slumber task of shifting and tucking duvet snugly around my body, the feathers and crisp cotton rustling loudly, as I ensure every square centimetre is safeguarded from the brisk night air. It's much like a lover's embrace, except it doesn't get sticky and sweaty after ten minutes (a favourable circumstance, I concede, depending on the situation preceding it ...), doesn't mind the occasional cold feet, and doesn't snore. And as practical as my polyester-cotton slipcover is, I -- as I do many other things -- prefer my duvets naked, for that unbeatably close, intimate feel. I love you, duvet darling. Let's to bed.
The dream is over.
Regarding "Salty Egg Superman", or Ultraman, she says that's what they called him in Hong Kong, ever since she as a teenager encountered the slender hero. I was inwardly disappointed by the lack of luridness in her explanation; she assumes it's the shape of his egg-like head, and as I surmised, his pupil-less eyes -- his entire being is just supremely eggy. Presumably to distinguish themselves, the people of Hong Kong went with something particularly indigenous, hence the salty egg. Because we love our salt. |
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture. home | contact | profile art blogging body childhood consumerism dream durr family fashion film history humour internet language lit nerd people poetry rant romance school sex social relations toronto ttc work 
|
|||||
