Whatever the reason, I finally turned off the scalding water in the shower and stepped out. In truth, I probably could have kept on standing in that molten spray until the hot water ran out, but being that warm for that long wasn’t healthy.
At least that was one little thing that always assured me of my womanhood. No matter how sexless and gross I felt, I always liked my shower water approximately one degree below vaporization, and Graves’ disease couldn’t steal that from me.
But now that I was out of the shower, I had to face the most fraught part of my preparation:
What the hell was I going to wear?
Aaaah!
It wasn’t a real freakout in my head, but it was a fun, dramatic one. After focusing on my career for so long, it was weird—but entirely welcome—to do something so… so…normal.
Not that being a teacher was abnormal, but there was an interesting dichotomy between being a permanently single and childless woman whose life pretty much revolved entirely around children, which I really didn’t want to think about while I was picking my outfit.
I knew this was real life and not a romance movie, but I wanted to wear something that gave me that va-va-voom feeling. While I in no way resembled a movie star, that didn’t mean that I couldn’t achieve that slow-motion, flip-of-the-hair-over-the-shoulder, everyone-stop-and-stare experience.
At least, in my imagination. It really didn’t matter how the outside world saw me, but rather how I saw myself.
“So, what does not look like something a teacher wears?”
I didn’t really think of myself as a schoolmarm, but a huge part of my wardrobe was loose overalls with fun prints, flowing, knee-length skirts, turtlenecks, and my favorite: oversized sweaters.
While I loved every piece and thought I was fairly stylish for an elementary school educator, I wanted a night entirely outside of Miss Fischbacher. I wanted to beGisellewith no modifiers. Not a sick woman, not a teacher, just a woman enjoying dinner with a man.
Who also happened to be incredibly charming and attractive.
Doubleaaaaaaaah!
That’s what had me going to the very back of the walk-in closet my father had built for me once my mother passed and we’d switched rooms. It hadn’t happened right away, but about a month after her funeral, my father asked if I would be down for a swap. I’d agreed because it had to be difficult to sleep in the room he’d shared with his wife for decades, but it hadn’t been easy for me either. The two of us had spent an entire year DIYing to change it around enough so I didn’t feel like I was living in my mother’s crypt. One of those changes was expanding the closet so I would have room for all my wigs and clothes. Perhaps it was vain of me, but I never wanted to be stuck on a routine of wearing the same five outfits every week. It wasn’t like my options were overwhelming, but I could go two weeks without repeating anything.
“Not teachery… not teachery…” I almost chanted to myself as I looked down the two parallel lines of clothing. And that’s when I spotted a small bit of chiffon sticking out in the back.
“Oh,right!”
Back when I was in college, I’d been right in the heart of the city, where thrift shops had abounded. It was before resellers, Depop vultures, and rich people who didn’t need the savings had descended on thrift shops and gentrified them. For the five-and-a-half years I was doing my entire program, I was searching all those shops for vintage, interesting pieces that fit me.
Granted, I was a bit bigger back then—a size six as opposed to whatever I was now. But with a belt, I was sure I could get those clothes to fit.
“How could I have forgotten?” I mused to myself as I pushed aside the hangers. Sure enough, there were ten dresses I’d lovingly collected over my entire collegiate career, with maybe two hundred spent total. They ranged from cocktail to high-waisted rockabilly to swing dresses.
And each one of them was beautiful.
“When did I stop paying attention to this side of me?” I murmured as I ran my fingers over the different fabrics. I still expressed myself with my wigs, makeup, and teacher ’fits—as the kids would say—but I kind of missed the woman who would get dressed up just to go out to China Buffet with my friends.
Maybe I could find time for her. It wasn’t practical to assume I could drastically change my life now, especially right before the change in semester, but maybe I could make a point of it during the summer. While there weren’t any high-calorie, high-salt American-Chinese all-you-can-eat places in our suburb, I could drive to the city on the weekend to reconnect with any old friends in the area, as well as make friends at one of our two community gardens.
Yeah, that was a great idea. I would have to hold myself to that, though. It was so easy to promise myself something in the moment, but the minute I got busy, I either forgot about it or deprioritized myself.
It was a terrible habit.
“Hmmm, which to pick?” After ten days without my classroom, my habit of narrating my routine had become full-blown conversations to keep myself from going mad.
It wasn’t like my family was neglecting me. Between my brother and my father, and Nox face-timing or texting, they all made sure I had plenty of mental stimulation when I wasn’tresting. But between college and jobs, my siblings only had so much free time, and while my father was retired, he still maintained a schedule—physical therapy for his knee, a walking club he joined, and a vigorous nap habit. So, my own voice had filled the gaps, but I didn’t mind. Besides, I figured it kept my vocal cords limber for when I returned to work on Monday.
I didn’t think I wanted to wear one of the fuller swing dresses, and I wasn’t feeling the color yellow, so three of the ten were out automatically. While the red was tempting, I wasn’t quite in the mood for that. Probably my own insecurities speaking, but it would only exaggerate the sallowness and slight bruising to my skin after the hospital and all that.
“Fifties cocktail or nineties little black dress?” I asked the air. Naturally, the air didn’t answer.
It was time to call in the reserves.
