Kelly Dawes's Blog, page 2
November 11, 2014
Chapter 5: The Mirror
The following is a work of fiction, and continuation from the previous posts, Chapters 1-4:
I would be lying if I said I didn't go to the party thrown by my neighbors that Friday. However, if someone had asked me, I would have pretended not to be interested in attending. But my curiosity had peaked when I held that invitation in my hand at my mailbox, and had been sealed after the girl had introduced herself to me.
I had starred at my closet for what felt like a couple hours as I fretted over what to wear. I hadn't been to one of these in years. I hadn't been into someone else's home in a few years. I hadn't talked socially with others in God knows how long. If I had had my entire wardrobe with me that were hanging on lonely racks back in Los Angeles. If I had had that entire closet, I would have spent half a day trying to decide what to wear. My entire closet was a beautiful story – it was filled with cocktail dresses that had danced with famous souls, sun dresses that had tasted the ocean waters in far off places. But the best were my favorite tops that had wine spilled on them from a party I hosted. You see, I hated to throw out anything of mine. Even though I hadn't worn some of these clothing items in years, I refused to let them go. Instead, I continued to line the walls of my closet with clothing that's filled with stories of my past life. My closet here in this bungalow in Florida was a very different story than Los Angeles. My closet was basic - it was filled with neutral colors. White blouses, black t-shirts, dark jeans, one beige jacket, a black dress, while most of my closet was filled with running attire of some shape. Still, I somehow fretted over what to wear for quite some time. It probably was the vodka soda speaking to me that early evening when I decided on the one black dress I had brought with me. I hadn't worn a dress in what felt like years. I slid the dress over my head and zipped the side up feeling and looking like a completely different woman than the last several months. It hung loser than when I had worn it last, whenever that had been. I couldn't even remember what I had purchased the dress for. My skin was more bronzed that I remember, and my calves and arms held toned definition. I stared at myself in the mirror, with no trace of makeup on my face, and realized I hadn't truly looked at myself in the mirror since I had arrived in Florida. Of course I had looked at myself each morning and evening when I rose or got ready for bed. But that was habit. That's the habit we all get into in life. Looking for the flaws – "what makeup needs to be removed?" "What makeup needs to be added?" "Where did that blemish come from?" We look for imperfections at this time of day - when you rise or before you go to sleep - and try to correct. That wasn't what I had neglected to do. No, what I hadn't done in what felt like eternity was truly look at myself. I stared at myself for quite some time in that mirror, inspecting each crevice, outline, wrinkle. My cheeks were not as bronzed as the rest of my body, but they were more tan than usual. There were a few more wrinkles under my eyes than I last remembered. Oh, the joys of aging as a woman. My dark brown eyes were the same. Or were they? They were filled with years of regrets – could you see that now as I continued to age? My dark long brown hair even had hints of caramel coloring from all the time spent in the sun. I sighed as I stood there in the mirror peering at myself from what felt like an outside lens. I had heard how beautiful I was over the years by countless strangers, even Henry told me if not every day, every other day. Yet I was one of my toughest critics and hardly thought it could be true. It was much easier to ignore those comments than embrace them and face what that truly meant for my life. I stood there in the fluorescent lights of my tiny bathroom and felt like I was discovering what I looked like for the first time. A part of me, a very small part of me, liked what I saw for the first time. It suddenly hit me as I stared at my glowing face, that the beauty I disliked was the lack of beauty inside my soul. I downed my vodka soda and eventually made my way to the party. What a mood to be in while I ventured to my fist party in years.
I would be lying if I said I didn't go to the party thrown by my neighbors that Friday. However, if someone had asked me, I would have pretended not to be interested in attending. But my curiosity had peaked when I held that invitation in my hand at my mailbox, and had been sealed after the girl had introduced herself to me.
I had starred at my closet for what felt like a couple hours as I fretted over what to wear. I hadn't been to one of these in years. I hadn't been into someone else's home in a few years. I hadn't talked socially with others in God knows how long. If I had had my entire wardrobe with me that were hanging on lonely racks back in Los Angeles. If I had had that entire closet, I would have spent half a day trying to decide what to wear. My entire closet was a beautiful story – it was filled with cocktail dresses that had danced with famous souls, sun dresses that had tasted the ocean waters in far off places. But the best were my favorite tops that had wine spilled on them from a party I hosted. You see, I hated to throw out anything of mine. Even though I hadn't worn some of these clothing items in years, I refused to let them go. Instead, I continued to line the walls of my closet with clothing that's filled with stories of my past life. My closet here in this bungalow in Florida was a very different story than Los Angeles. My closet was basic - it was filled with neutral colors. White blouses, black t-shirts, dark jeans, one beige jacket, a black dress, while most of my closet was filled with running attire of some shape. Still, I somehow fretted over what to wear for quite some time. It probably was the vodka soda speaking to me that early evening when I decided on the one black dress I had brought with me. I hadn't worn a dress in what felt like years. I slid the dress over my head and zipped the side up feeling and looking like a completely different woman than the last several months. It hung loser than when I had worn it last, whenever that had been. I couldn't even remember what I had purchased the dress for. My skin was more bronzed that I remember, and my calves and arms held toned definition. I stared at myself in the mirror, with no trace of makeup on my face, and realized I hadn't truly looked at myself in the mirror since I had arrived in Florida. Of course I had looked at myself each morning and evening when I rose or got ready for bed. But that was habit. That's the habit we all get into in life. Looking for the flaws – "what makeup needs to be removed?" "What makeup needs to be added?" "Where did that blemish come from?" We look for imperfections at this time of day - when you rise or before you go to sleep - and try to correct. That wasn't what I had neglected to do. No, what I hadn't done in what felt like eternity was truly look at myself. I stared at myself for quite some time in that mirror, inspecting each crevice, outline, wrinkle. My cheeks were not as bronzed as the rest of my body, but they were more tan than usual. There were a few more wrinkles under my eyes than I last remembered. Oh, the joys of aging as a woman. My dark brown eyes were the same. Or were they? They were filled with years of regrets – could you see that now as I continued to age? My dark long brown hair even had hints of caramel coloring from all the time spent in the sun. I sighed as I stood there in the mirror peering at myself from what felt like an outside lens. I had heard how beautiful I was over the years by countless strangers, even Henry told me if not every day, every other day. Yet I was one of my toughest critics and hardly thought it could be true. It was much easier to ignore those comments than embrace them and face what that truly meant for my life. I stood there in the fluorescent lights of my tiny bathroom and felt like I was discovering what I looked like for the first time. A part of me, a very small part of me, liked what I saw for the first time. It suddenly hit me as I stared at my glowing face, that the beauty I disliked was the lack of beauty inside my soul. I downed my vodka soda and eventually made my way to the party. What a mood to be in while I ventured to my fist party in years.
October 5, 2014
Chapter 4: Cindy
The following is a work of fiction, and a continuation from the previous posts, Chapter 1-3:
The next few days looked exactly like the past few months – sleeping in, runs and walks on the beach, gluing my eyes to a book, intricate dinner feasts made and prepped for one person, lots of wine, and vodka sodas. I had turned my life into somewhat of an auto pilot with these activities being my daily rituals. It was almost as if I was living a gray daze. I was in denial about my future, and even more petrified to look at my past.
One evening after I had been on a walk for a couple hours, I stopped at the end of my driveway, and checked the mailbox. There had hardly been any worthwhile mail thus far my stay there. Most of it had been spam, anything from oil changes, grocery coupons, or advertisements intended for the owner of the house I was renting from. I continued to have my mail sent to my current address in Los Angeles, and had my assistant, Mary, who I wildly overpaid collect and organize it. Mary kept my life together – she paid my bills, did my taxes, helped me book my travel, amongst other things. She basically kept me from getting into any trouble and did all of the things I had never learned to do from a young age. She was the one who found this house and paid the rent each month.
When I opened the mailbox, I browsed through the usual spam mail, until I saw a mint green envelope addressed to, "Our Neighbor" in hand written black cursive. There was no stamp on the envelope or return address, so I quickly tour it open and found in my hands an invitation to a dinner party for the following Friday, thrown by none other than the new neighbors I had waved to on their dock the other day. It was themed, "a dinner by the sea." It probably would entail lots of champagne and sea food. Typical for any out-of-towners who ventured here – they all had to embrace the fresh and local caught sea food.
I immediately thought of two things after I opened that letter from who I now knew were The Chambers living next door to me. Immediately, and a large part of me regretted acknowledging them in anyway that day. I no longer felt invincible, even if they had put these invites in every mail box on our street, and I just happen to live right door to them. Or was I the only person invited who they didn't know by name, so they had to write, "Our Neighbor" on just my envelope?
Although, a small part of me was intrigued by this invitation. I hadn't spoken in-depth with anyone in months, outside of the staff at the grocery store and local liquor store in town.
I was walking towards my house when I heard a bike wheels come to a stop and a girl say, "You coming to our party?"
I turned around, still holding the opened mint green envelope, and looked into the eyes of that girl I had seen the other day on the pier. Her long dark hair was pulled back again into a pony tail, while she wore white jean shorts and a navy blue tank top. She had some red skin around her shoulders and cheeks – most likely some sunburn from the scorching hot Florida sun on her pale skin. She had a smile on her face that was almost contagious to look at.
"I'm not sure," was all I could muster as a reply.
"You should come – it should be a great turn out. And lots of food and wine," this girl replied back. She still didn't look over the age of 15, and yet her eyes light up when she mentioned wine.
I sat there in silence unsure of what to say to this girl. Instead I tried to change the subject and quizzed her, "Aren't you quite young for wine?"
"You're never too young to drink wine in small portions," she quickly and slowly retaliated. There was poise and sophistication in her voice. The kind you most likely get from years of a prep school, but it was even more than that. I thought she must be that kind of girl that was born a grown up – ahead of her time in maturity.
"I couldn't agree more," I replied.
I glanced up towards my house, signally to this girl that our time was at an end. I was always a polite woman. I was just less and less chatty these days.
"Promise you'll think about it?" the girl asked as she put one foot on her bike pedal, signaling back to me she would soon leave.
"Sure."
I was about to walk back inside when she said, "I'm Cindy by the way." And with that, she smiled and slowly pedaled away. Now the girl who laughed and smiled a lot next door had a name.
The next few days looked exactly like the past few months – sleeping in, runs and walks on the beach, gluing my eyes to a book, intricate dinner feasts made and prepped for one person, lots of wine, and vodka sodas. I had turned my life into somewhat of an auto pilot with these activities being my daily rituals. It was almost as if I was living a gray daze. I was in denial about my future, and even more petrified to look at my past.
One evening after I had been on a walk for a couple hours, I stopped at the end of my driveway, and checked the mailbox. There had hardly been any worthwhile mail thus far my stay there. Most of it had been spam, anything from oil changes, grocery coupons, or advertisements intended for the owner of the house I was renting from. I continued to have my mail sent to my current address in Los Angeles, and had my assistant, Mary, who I wildly overpaid collect and organize it. Mary kept my life together – she paid my bills, did my taxes, helped me book my travel, amongst other things. She basically kept me from getting into any trouble and did all of the things I had never learned to do from a young age. She was the one who found this house and paid the rent each month.
When I opened the mailbox, I browsed through the usual spam mail, until I saw a mint green envelope addressed to, "Our Neighbor" in hand written black cursive. There was no stamp on the envelope or return address, so I quickly tour it open and found in my hands an invitation to a dinner party for the following Friday, thrown by none other than the new neighbors I had waved to on their dock the other day. It was themed, "a dinner by the sea." It probably would entail lots of champagne and sea food. Typical for any out-of-towners who ventured here – they all had to embrace the fresh and local caught sea food.
I immediately thought of two things after I opened that letter from who I now knew were The Chambers living next door to me. Immediately, and a large part of me regretted acknowledging them in anyway that day. I no longer felt invincible, even if they had put these invites in every mail box on our street, and I just happen to live right door to them. Or was I the only person invited who they didn't know by name, so they had to write, "Our Neighbor" on just my envelope?
Although, a small part of me was intrigued by this invitation. I hadn't spoken in-depth with anyone in months, outside of the staff at the grocery store and local liquor store in town.
I was walking towards my house when I heard a bike wheels come to a stop and a girl say, "You coming to our party?"
I turned around, still holding the opened mint green envelope, and looked into the eyes of that girl I had seen the other day on the pier. Her long dark hair was pulled back again into a pony tail, while she wore white jean shorts and a navy blue tank top. She had some red skin around her shoulders and cheeks – most likely some sunburn from the scorching hot Florida sun on her pale skin. She had a smile on her face that was almost contagious to look at.
"I'm not sure," was all I could muster as a reply.
"You should come – it should be a great turn out. And lots of food and wine," this girl replied back. She still didn't look over the age of 15, and yet her eyes light up when she mentioned wine.
I sat there in silence unsure of what to say to this girl. Instead I tried to change the subject and quizzed her, "Aren't you quite young for wine?"
"You're never too young to drink wine in small portions," she quickly and slowly retaliated. There was poise and sophistication in her voice. The kind you most likely get from years of a prep school, but it was even more than that. I thought she must be that kind of girl that was born a grown up – ahead of her time in maturity.
"I couldn't agree more," I replied.
I glanced up towards my house, signally to this girl that our time was at an end. I was always a polite woman. I was just less and less chatty these days.
"Promise you'll think about it?" the girl asked as she put one foot on her bike pedal, signaling back to me she would soon leave.
"Sure."
I was about to walk back inside when she said, "I'm Cindy by the way." And with that, she smiled and slowly pedaled away. Now the girl who laughed and smiled a lot next door had a name.
