[day 3 - a summer of substack]
In the mirror, the night before, I construct who I want to be tomorrow.
It starts, as all things do, with the clothes. This time, a new blue and white pinstripe dress. It is tied over my shoulders with string, the ruched top half finishing just below my breasts to end in a long, loose skirt. I theorise three different bras to wear. Which will peek the least over the top? I want the look of the no-bra girls, but with the bra. The hem of the dress strokes my mid shin. It reminds me that I should probably shave. I contemplate this, then contemplate shaving to just-above-my-mid-shin. I resolve to wear tights.
I try it on, slipping the idea of tomorrow over my body, weary from today. I allow the hope to dress me in the chance that I go to bed dreaming of sweet things, of coffee and perfume and the future. My underwear peeks through. Does it? I resolve to wear tights.
My decisions are folded in a neat pile, ready for the morning. My body and my face are freshly hot from the shower, skin taught from the steam. The glass-cooled droplets of moisturiser are needed, and I rub them with my fingertips into my face and neck, gentle as a ritual. I do the same with oil to my scalp and across my hair, which I tie up into a bun. What does the me of tomorrow look like? Combinations of makeup and jewellery flash before me, the shine of my ever-growing earring collection catching the light in my minds eye. I will decide tomorrow, when I am drunk on the morning.
The unused products in my makeup bag have been naturally pushed to the bottom, after a lifetime of reaching for the same mascara and eyeliner (three colours). Maybe I’ll push the boat out tomorrow, reach further in to the bag, elbow deep. Is it finally the time I learn how to apply blush to match my face shape? Or to tint my brows lightly - not in a 2020 soap-brow way, or a 2016 rectangle-brow way, but the way I have been told to most recently. I consider re-downloading TikTok to catch up with the latest on eyebrows. What are they up to nowadays?
The me of tomorrow is prepared. She thanks the me of tonight for having the foresight to pack a bag, to place her laptop on charge. She is grateful to me for making a checklist for the morning, for when she inevitably naturally rises. She will place her bare feet gently down on the carpet beside her bed, being cautious not to wake the cat sleeping at the foot of her bed, and feel the pressure of her own weight, thankful for the ground beneath her feet. She will turn off the extra alarms she has set for caution, even the one that will play Rage Against The Machine’s Wake Up in an attempt to scare her awake. She will laugh. How foolish to think I would need multiple alarms! She has a perfect circadian rhythm, and perfect skin.
And then for the rest of the day she will
For the rest of the day, she
She enjoys
Having a room where 2 of 4 walls contain a mirror is not good for the self esteem. I find myself often in this rut of building and rebuilding myself in the evenings. It’s a hole that I did for myself, but god it’s a good trap. Maybe it’s because I read Frankenstein at a young and impressionable age, but the construction of a body is not only fascinating, but a habit I engage in. I stitch myself back up at night, with care (more often than not). All of the cuts of the day are sewn back shut, and healed by the promise of tomorrow.
But it’s all hypothetical. This new me, this mass of new limbs and glass eyes and thread, what does she do?
Between you and me, I’d wager that she writes. She has learnt to type quickly and quietly, into her notes app. She will edit later. For now, she types and types, illuminated by the hallway lamp shining through her ajar door, and the string lights above her head, a bokeh reflected in the mirrors.