beauty that moves

Viewing the Body

Flowers like a gangster's funeral;
Eyeshadow like a whore.
They all say isn't she beautiful.
She, who never wore

Lipstick or such a dress,
Never got taken out,
Was scarcely looked at, much less
Wanted or talked about;

Who, gray as a mouse, crept
The dark halls at her mother's
Or snuggled, soft, and slept
Alone in the dim bedcovers.

Today at last she holds
All eyes and a place of honor
Till the obscene red folds
Of satin close down on her.

--W. D. Snodgrass

How many funerals have I been to like this? This is why I no longer attend the viewings. There's something obscene in looking at the dead all made-up and stiff; no longer resembling themselves just these empty shells. Even worse when they make the person into something they were not. I too, rarely wear lipstick or a dress like that. And I would prefer that I'm sent off as I am: clean face and in my favorite pajama pants, please. However, what our dear Mr. Snodgrass does not address is if she wanted all eyes on her (even for once). What if she preferred her mousy, quiet existence? Likely, she did or she would've done something about it. And the worst of it all...the murmuring of "isn't she beautiful." Looking nothing like herself...beautiful. Oh, how I hate funerals. They're like red carpet events for normal people. Gawk at the bereaved, wear your best outfit, arrive, press cool hands to others as you make the rounds, and always answer with something appropriate and pithy. Sadly, in my 34 years on this planet I've been to more funerals than weddings.

I always feel a little like the lady in our poem when my dear friend Mary makes me up. Mary is beautiful, glamorous, fashionable, and loves to makeover her girlfriends. Especially, the low-maintenance ones like me and her sister. I'll emerge from her ministrations in the back room: contacts in, hair artfully fixed, my big eyes smudged and hi-lighted, my waist cinched into a little dress, and my friends will stare. Don't get me wrong, the reaction is fun, and much more profound if you aren't a fancy gal on any kind of daily basis. I did a version of Mary recently for an evening out with friends to go to the biggest honky-tonk in Texas and take in a show. My boyfriend just kept saying he wouldn't recognize me when I came out of the bathroom. I look great in the pictures, but in a weird way it was like wearing a costume...me in technicolor.

I wouldn't say I'm mousy; I'm just the girl you end up talking to at the bar who surprises you. I hold your attention sans cleavage. Trust me, I'm not the girl who's ass you noticed first. I got a funny text today that said, "You never came to Lou's" (Lou's being a local bar). I replied with, "Sorry, who is this?" (I never go to Lou's). Here's the rest of the exchange:
Them: Sorry, I guess I have the wrong number
Me: No prob
Them: Just to be clear, you aren't that girl who played foosball in the sparkly shirt?
Me: Ha! No, I'm not that girl.
Them: Okay, sorry then, bye.

I'm not that girl. Never been that girl for more than a night. And if you saw me the next day, you'd likely not recognize me. I'm old-fashioned I guess, and prefer what's beautiful about me to be almost a surprise. Reserved for a few. Not on display at Walmart or the bar for all the male attention I could get.

I'll leave you with a fabulous Ani Difranco quote, "It took me too long to realize that I don't take good pictures 'cuz I've got the kind of beauty that moves..."

Much better; don't you think?