Today in the shower, as I reached for the shampoo, my hand brushed against my cotton candy pink razor. It's the first time I've touched it in days. Shaving in the middle of a pandemic? I feel like I'm putting a pretty pot of flowers outside of a burning building. I feel like I'm polishing a car the engine has just fallen out of. I feel like the string quartet playing farewell songs on the Titanic, from the movie Titanic, probably.
I used to be like you. I was so groomed, so intent on at least looking like I had my shit together. I got manicures, used expensive hair products, religiously cared for my brows. I paid people a lot of money to make me feel that if I could not dance and jump and stretch with the grace of a gazelle that I deserved to die alone. Approximately every month and a half, I listened intently to a woman as she ripped the hair off my pussy, bookending each of my yelps with comments like "It's hard." (ah) "My grandma raised me, really." (ah, fuck that one hurt) "I don't talk to my mom much anymore. You want your asshole waxed too?" (yes pleaHH FUCK)
There's a poorly constructed, colored-in-crayon chart in my head tracking things like how often I've been showering, or when the last time I put on makeup was, or which outfits I've worn more than twice this week. Who am I now? Just a girl, sitting on her couch in a cat onesie, asking this pint of ice cream why I didn't get it in a bigger size. The dumbbell set I've used once sits silently in the corner. I forgot how to feel shame somewhere around quarantine day 8.
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