© 2019 BY MEARA ROSE

THE FIVE STAGES OF GETTING READY

October 16, 2017

Denial

 

I stare at my phone, sprawled like a majestic cow out to pasture. The fan blows a gentle breeze on my recently showered face. My long hair begins to dry and frizz.  The clock changes to 2:06 PM. It is now 1 hour and 54 minutes until I have to leave the apartment. Plenty of time to do hair and makeup. Plenty of time...

 

My hunger returns and the moment has come to eat the third taco I ordered. I originally intended to to save it for a drunken insurance policy snack later on, but it sits there, staring at me with it's savory, luscious face and my lust takes over. 

                                          Image is literally sourced from the "Taco Lust" Myspace page.  

                                         

 

Anger

 

2:26 PM:

 

I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror and moisturize my face. My thoughts begin: Why the fuck is my hair so frizzy? I really don't want or have enough time to blow dry it all the way. I really should've put the lotion on earlier and showered in the morning. Now things haven't sunk into my skin yet and I have to wait to put on foundation. The bathroom is all foggy from my shower and now I'm sweating. Where the hell are my tweezers, I have a fucking mustache. Damnit, I'm out of the good concealer, I need to order some this week. I better pick out my outfit while this moisturizer sinks in to save time. 

 

I walk towards the closet with purpose while my dirty clothes and clean clothes flirt with one another near the hamper. Where the FUCK is my good bra that makes my boobs look bigger? I look through the hamper for 10 minutes and find it near my gym pants. Gross. 

 

Ok, I think, choose an outfit. No big deal, just make it happen. 

 

This shirt? No, too sloppy. This dress? Too fancy. These jeans? I can't sit down in them. WHERE IS ALL MY UNDERWEAR? 

 

I have nothing to wear. NOTHING AT ALL. I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING. 

 

 

Bargaining

 

3:15 PM:

 

Ok I've done my foundation and eyebrows. And FINE, I'll wear this dress that I hate. WITH TIGHTS THOUGH BECAUSE I REFUSE TO SHAVE NOW. I FIGURED I'D WEAR PANTS SO I DIDN'T SHAVE EARLIER. I'M NOT. SHAVING. MY. LEGS. IN. THE. SINK. LAST. MINUTE. LIKE. I. DO. IN. THE. SUMMER.

 

I ask myself if I should try a new makeup technique now in the 11th hour. To make up for the dress that I hate.  A new color or perhaps a sparkling liquid liner that's incredible difficult to manipulate? 

 

Absolutely. 

 

My makeup begins to look as though a 6 year old just went through her mother's bathroom drawer. The lips don't go with the eyes, the lashes are falling in the sink. I have to give up. Just do something simple, I tell myself. 

 

I wipe off the makeup I just spent 20 minutes on. 

 

Depression

 

3:45 PM: 

 

I have 15 minutes to make this happen. Boyfriend is now in MY BATHROOM (we have one bathroom but it is mine) doing his one hair thing that he does that takes 2 minutes. Fucking men have it so good. 

 

The realization that I'm going to look awful and boring has set in. I sit on the toilet and wait for him to gel his hair. I don't let myself cry because a bit of the old mascara is still there. Clinging to life as I cling to the remnants of my joy and hopefulness that today would be a good hair day. 

 

I brush my hair into a bun. This is giving up.  

 

I do a basic cat-eye and normal lip, like always, while I stare at the floor in sadness, disgust, and apathy. 

 

Acceptance

 

4:10 PM:

 

We're already going to be late. We were going to be late as soon as we woke up on a weekend in Brooklyn and had to depend on the MTA to get us into the city on time. 

 

My makeup is dull and boring, and the cat-eyes do not match. I have no tears that I can spill therefore I just keep sighing with dissatisfaction.

 

I bring my press on nails to accomplish on the subway ride. We walk out of the apartment. It's still hot even though it's not summer anymore. Boyfriend walks too quickly. The heels already hurt my feet. We arrive to the train station only to find that:

 

The R train isn't running. We'll have to take the bus. 

 

I put my nails back in my purse as I can't do them with one hand. My barren nails make my rings look gaudy. I stand and sweat in the bus stop with the other 300 displaced people waiting for the train, gazing out at Brooklyn and say:

 

I could really use a fucking slice right about now. 

 

 

 

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