Saturday, September 3, 2016

Writing Prompt: Something You Really Wanted, But Once You Got It, Didn't Want It Anymore

When I was ten, I adored my mother's makeup and nail polish.  When I was twelve, I got my own.

My mother gave me my first manicure...And as soon as she pushed my cuticles back and cut them, I knew she was also giving me my last one.

I wore my nail polish for three days.  I wore the makeup for three hours.

And in both, I had to remove them because it felt like I was smothering.  My skin couldn't breathe.  My nails couldn't breathe.  And both were WAY more effort for that kind of discomfort than I was willing to endure.  So I stopped using them both because neither were what I thought they were.

I still can't wear nail polish for more than a day, nor make up for more than a couple of hours, so I don't typically wear either.

(Clearly I have no choice but to use these, but it sort of fits, so I'm adding this):

When I was thirteen, I was the youngest kid in my grade and EVERY OTHER GIRL already had boobs.  I was afraid I'd never get any.

For six months, I would wake up in the morning, stand before my bedroom mirror sideways, and see if they'd started budding.  They hadn't.  And I'd say, "Dear God, if it's not too much to ask, please may I have some boobs.  Thank you."  For. Six. Months.

And then, they budded. And I'd say, "Dear God, thank you for letting me have breasts!  ...If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could they be a little bit bigger?"

And when they reached size B, "Dear God, Thank you so much!  These are prefect!"

And when they reached size C, "Dear God, thank you for your bountiful answer.  ...If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could this be enough?"

And when they reached DD, "Dear God, I get it.  I won't ask for body assistance any more.  Please, for the love of all that is holy, I've learned my lesson!"  And they finally stopped.

And I discovered that boobs weren't nearly as much fun as running used to be...And running hurt now.  It was not a fair trade off.

But it was an important lesson.

When I was sixteen, I saw these awesome, thigh high black leather boots at the mall.  They were $160.

I spent four months earning that through crap chores like emptying the rain gutters.

And when I went back, money in hand, I was certain it was fate because they were still there, waiting for me!

They were my size and I bought them and took them home, delighted.

But they pinched and rubbed my thighs, blistered my left heel...And kept sliding down to bunch around my calves.

I never wore them again, decided fashion wasn't worth comfort, and kept them in my closet for six -years- as a reminder not to waste money on whatever the latest "It" might be, if it wasn't also comfortable.

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