equilibrium-girl.com

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Every morning I stand before a gaping chasm of mystery, waiting the right answer to come forth. It's not like the question I'm transmitting in my mind to that large dark hole is that profound of a metaphysical question. I'm certainly not trying to solve the mystery of cold fusion, nor am I attempting to determine whether dead weight loss actually exists. The request is really a selfish one, for it is really all about me.

I can stand in front of my closet for as long as ten (10) minutes, waiting for the right skirt or pants to catch my eye and select itself as part of my outfit for that day. I've engaged in serious negotations from time to time with a silk, patterned skirt or chalk striped black bootcut pant, even to go so far as to slip it on, analyze fit in front of my mirror with my brow furrowed. I do this because I lack a certain level of objectivity, and to this day no one has proferred a "best practices" set of guidelines against which to benchmark correct ass fit.

It's particularly important these days. Having switched jobs recently, I no longer work with just attorneys and accompanying assistants and other support staff. That means the mean level of co-worker attractiveness has increased.

And once again, it's high school and I'm that introverted little girl feeling confused and awkward--and I just want to fit in. Only this time, I'm not just surrounded by seas of blonde hair, pink seashell-colored lipstick, and cattiness--there are even more beautiful women than I would probably ever encounter in the small Midwestern city in which I grew up.

And so I've filled my closets over time with black bootcut pants, black 3/4-length sleeve tops, and high-heeled sandals. Mostly, they are designer items purchased at outlets (b3be, Banana Repugnant, B_CBG). They have been agonized over in ill-lighted store dressing rooms. I have bought coordinating K@te Sp@de bags in neutral colors and made my own from vintage reproduction fabric ordered online to match. Really, I should just stand in front of my closet each morning and ask the following of it: May I have my self-esteem back?.

The closet always remains silent, for it wasn't to blame for the loss of self-image in the first place. So what can it really say? How can the self-esteem that eroded over the course of 3 years of working with a catty, snide co-worker and petty boss have washed along into my closet, ready to be reassembled and worn again? How can years of having fault found with my sentence structure (and not legal analysis--which I find to be quizzical) be erased? How can my level of dissatisfaction with my post-pregnancy be reversed? Can you do anything with the inherent questions that stem from growing up Asian in a Midwestern town? Or will I always feel twelve years old, waiting for that next boy to put his fingers on the outer edges of his eyes and draw them outwards?

But the closet can't answer those questions, so it--along with my chock-full makeup bag and handmade jewelry--provides me with substitutes. I get a certain sense of self-satisfaction when pulling on a pair of kitten-heeled slides with subtle bows on the top. I admire the fact that the trendy puffed-sleeve top makes my once-muscular arms look a bit toned. At the last minute, I switch purses to a rust-colored hobo that I found in the dark, slightly dusty corner on the third shelf. It fits my two cell phones, makeup bag, and 3 pens (all different, yet all necessary). And always, a chunky gemstone bracelet with a smooth sterling silver clasp. Throughout the day, I will twist the gemstones around as I sit through conference call after conference call, my machinations becoming the most intense when I frame a statement in my mind that then travels out my mouth, through landlines, and into the ears of others.

I realize there isn't anything that can really substitute for self-image, but my closet helps get me along my way as I work throughout the day to rebuild it. A phone call in which I stand my ground and require the client to jump through necessary hoops. A presentation, at the end of which the agency provides their gratitude. And finally, at the end of the day--and after the most intense negotiation in which I have partcipated--the thirty kisses that my son requires before he agrees to go to bed.

I get ready to sleep. I leave my closet doors open, for it doesn't make sense to close them. I turn out the bedroom light. As the light from the airport runway 2 miles away radiates through my curtains, I see the dark, large rectangle hole in my wall--like a mouth, framing answers to the questions I have in my head.