Pretty Things

When I was a little girl in Disneyland with my family, there was a pretty thing I wanted in the hotel gift shop.  It was sort of like a T-shirt, but was cut out in unusual ways and had these tassels flowing from it.  It was a sort of tie dye, purple and blue with some sort of Disney Land related logo on the front.  I thought it was beautiful, and walked by it every day.

Eventually, I worked up the courage to go into the shop with my cousin and ask how much it cost.

“That’s not for you,” the shopkeeper told me angrily, “that’s for a grown woman.”

In retrospect, it was a fairly strange to exist in a hotel gift shop – Disney Land themed T-shirt lingerie – but there it was and I wanted it and could not have it.  Could not even consider having it.  In fact, I was so clearly below it that I was mocked for simply asking the price, which I undoubtedly could not have afforded anyway.

A more compassionate shopkeeper might have smiled at me.  ”Pretty, isn’t it?  Unfortunately, I don’t have it in your size.”

But I did not meet a compassionate shopkeeper that day.  I met a bitter old woman, horrified at the confused sexuality of a ten year old who didn’t fully understand what she was asking for.  And, it definitely was an expression of my sexuality.  I knew enough not to ask my parents for it.  I knew it was feminine in a way I was not, in a way I wanted to be.  If I could only acquire it, it could bestow its power upon me.

But I did not acquire it.

The only thing I got that day, was a memory of that voice that played itself over and over in my mind.  That is not for you.

It played it again when I went to buy my first set of lingerie at Victoria’s Secret.  I went with my boyfriend when I was 16, but I could not cross the threshold of the store.  He went in and got it without me.

And again when I tried on a yellow slip with my friends.  ”That looks so good on you!” they said after sneaking into the changing room with me, “You should buy it.”  It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t buy that cute little slip for myself.

Then again when I was trying on bras with my boyfriend waiting outside.  ”Is she really a full C?” the saleswoman asked him as I tried on bras.  No, bitch.  I am not a full C.  I am, however, uncomfortably snug in a B so I go up a size.  Why do you care if I buy a bra that’s too big?

It’s not just underwear that makes me feel this way though.

There are all these other things I do not feel I deserve, that normal women deserve.

Material care is one of them.  I never expect a man to pay for dinner, and in fact it makes me uncomfortable if he insists.  Once, I stayed for three months in my boyfriends apartment without paying rent and was completely overcome with guilt.  I tried to make myself as invisible as possible and make as little impression as I could.  I tried to not let him put a desk in the corner for me, but he insisted, and I felt bad that I had imposed on him so to take up a corner of his apartment.

Emotional care is another.  When my grandmother died, I didn’t tell the man I was dating at the time.  He had a big work deadline, and I just told him that my family was taking a vacation in England when I went to her funeral.  I didn’t want to inconvenience him with my emotions when he was so busy.

But love, really.  Love is the big one for me.

Even after all these years, I don’t think I deserve to be loved.  I remember, years ago at 151 house, I was walking in the streets with Chris and I  just broke down and started crying in the middle of the street.  I don’t remember what I was upset about, but I remember he gave me a hug and told me I was worthy of love.  And I was so happy to hear it, but it didn’t feel true.  As we stood there, some school somewhere got out and all these kids ran around us on the streets.  How many of them were loved?  All of them, I hope.

Was I loved as a kid?  I mean, I was.  But I was alone a lot.  It was a sort of logical, distant sort of love.  Sometimes, when I felt sad, I’d think to myself that my mother loved me and I’d feel better.  I never went and hugged her though.  She would have, when I was a little girl I did all the time, but sometime after moving to America it began to feel strange.

When Nana died, I remember my mom crying in the airport.  And I didn’t really know what to do – I held her hand, I hardly knew how to touch her.

Sometimes I look at other women, and they seem so weak.  They need to be taken care of so much.  They need someone to make money for them.  They need someone to comfort them when they’re sad.  They need someone to stand up for them when things are unfair – they need someone to fight their fights.  And I need none of these things.

But, I am so jealous of them.  Because despite all their weakness – possibly because their weaknesses – they are so endearing and so lovable.  And I don’t think I could ever be like that, I don’t think I could ever deserve that.

Still, it’s ok.  Sometimes we get things we don’t deserve.

The other day, I was at the mall and had the impulse to buy some girly slip type thing.  Again, I couldn’t do it.  The thought of myself going and trying on slips seemed so wrong – me, with my hair?  My clothes?  That store was not for me.

But, when I got home, I cheated and ordered some things online.  The first girly things I’d ever gotten for myself by myself.  One of the slips was totally wrong, but the other one and the robe?  They seemed perfect.  Completely in line with my taste, and just about as pretty as tie dye Disneyland T-shirt lingerie.

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