Holy Crap On a Cracker

Sorry.

I shouldn't be allowed to post while drinking... though I am drinking now. I shouldn't be allowed to post while drinking after spending an entire day alone followed by chickening out at the prospect of going to a bar alone even though I know that it would be better than sitting home alone and deciding instead to watch depressing (but good) movies... while drinking. Yeah, that's it.

Battling depression can be very difficult as my post last night no doubt supports. It's a little ironic, honestly. I put myself in most of the situations that have me feeling trapped. I create the walls that keep the meaningful friendships out. I have not been ostracized. I have sequestered myself. Yet, somehow I still feel powerless to change that reality.

I played with makeup yesterday. That didn't help. I haven't "transformed" in a couple years; in fact, I haven't even played around with makeup since the last "transformation." The end result was scary. It brought back memories of the first time I ever wore makeup (not counting my own pathetic experiments). Those of you who have ever read any "transgender fiction" or other gender diverse literature - you know who you are! - will recall the typical format of any good fictional story:

• The boy reluctantly agrees to allow some important female figure to dress him up.
• Once dressed (or vice-versa), he is convinced to go ahead and try just a little makeup.
• The temptress finishes her work and - to both his and her amazement - reveals a teenage beauty queen emerging from the rough canvas of geeky teenage boyhood.

How many of us have fantasized that with just a little eyeshadow and lipstick, we too would magically transform into the image of feminine beauty? I'll never forget the first time a female friend made me up. I was disappointed not because the experiment was brutally embarrassingly interrupted by unexpected visitors (a funny story in and of itself), but because of the utter disappointment I felt at seeing how I "really" looked. I hoped and prayed for the unveiling of feminine beauty. After what seemed like hours of hair styling (yes, I really did have long hair back then) and subsequent face painting, my grand unveiling did reveal something unexpected.

I saw me with makeup on. My friend was insistent that I totally looked like a girl, and maybe I did; but I saw the same face. I saw the same person. And I saw the paints that were trying to hide the reality of my being. My experiments yesterday yielded much the same result.

I don't know what I expect to uncover by covering myself in pigments and paint. I don't know what revelations I hope to encounter through the application of lip color and mascara. I do know that the person that "shines" through is still me. She is not the woman of my dreams, nor - I suspect - is she the woman of any other man's dreams. She is just a sad, awkwardly painted mess who reveals more in the emptiness of her smile than in the brightness of her eye shadow.

Who said, "a little paint and some new shutters can do wonders for the resale value?"

Peace,
K