Mom got me a moisturizer for Easter. I adore it. It leaves my skin velvety soft.
I wish I had someone who would appreciate it as much as I do. Then I feel bad because I’m doing these self-maintenance rituals for myself and why do they feel like less if there isn’t a man around to touch my thigh and gasp in awe? But my soft skin and my thick hair are the two things about my physical appearance I like most and my hair is thinning and greying and my skin’s imperfections are becoming more noticeable. I know it’s all part of aging and I should be grateful blah blah blah but it’s almost tragic, like once you reach a certain age you enter a perpetual mourning period for your fading youth. So on the rare occasions when I feel confident and comfortable in this slow-rotting body of mine, I experience a tinge of regret when I turn my head and there’s no one next to me watching reels whose hand I can grab and move a little to the left.
Thankfully, aging stopped bothering me as much as it used to. I find it liberating. My knees are rusty and my back hurts if I sleep funny and I develop food intolerances that piss me off, but I now understand that I wasn’t put on this planet for others to gawk and approve. My body, my outfits, my whole – all are a reflection of my personality and struggles and past. If someone isn’t a fan, it’s not a personal failing. It’s unfortunate that it took me almost four decades to grasp this basic fact. Whenever I look at pictures of myself in my 20s, my heart breaks a little because she thought she wasn’t slim enough and not stylish enough and not pretty enough and unlovable as a result. Yet, I never relate to people who say things like “oh, I wish I could go back to high school but with the mind I have now,” or “oh, I wish I could go back to my 20s to truly appreciate them.” I’ve grown a lot over the years. All the mistakes and the hurt I’ve caused and was caused to me are what brought me to this point. I wouldn’t change a thing.
That’s a lie. I would change everything to spend more time with the people taken from me too soon. If there’s even a remote possibility of that, I’m going back in a heartbeat.
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As someone chronically single, I occasionally question whether I truly want what I think I want. I was on one of my long walks recently when I stopped at a red light and a man stopped next to me. I noticed he was handsome as I glanced sideways, but didn’t pay him much attention. Until he started to walk in front of me, and I saw his back. The kind of back you want to write dirty poems about. He had a gym bag resting on one shoulder and a T-shirt that wasn’t tight but wasn’t baggy. You could trace the definition of his back muscles, whose names I don’t know in either English or Romanian. The two minutes I spent walking behind him were the highlight of my month. I still think about his back to the point where I almost considered joining the gym I saw him go into because, yes, I looked at him for as long as he was in my line of sight, hopefully not in a creepy manner. I’m not a gym person and that particular gym isn’t close to where I live and I’m also broke right now but one day. It’s important to me that we make eye contact and he can internalize the fact that I look cute when I’m not on step 8,467 in 33 degrees Celsius.
I find my sudden obsession with this man’s back intriguing because muscular guys aren’t my type. I appreciate a good physique. It took a bit, but I finally taught TikTok that I don’t care about rugby, the sport, I care about rugby players. But I was with a gym dude once, and resting my head on his chest felt like lying on a bag of rocks. I’m usually attracted to weird-looking skinny dudes who dress like they’re still 22 and have too many tattoos and messy dark hair and give off the impression that they think deep thoughts. Funny, since I fell in love three times, never with a man who looked like that. Again, do I truly want what I think I want?
Because if Taylor Swift can date a jock who doesn’t know how to spell squirrel for 2 years without losing her will to live, perhaps breaking your pattern is worth considering.
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I don’t know how to put on makeup. I’ve tried and tried to learn, but my general clumsiness extends to applying colors to my face. Whenever I get made-up professionally, I feel like I’m wearing a mask. Despite knowing this about myself, I keep watching influencers completely transform how they look with a couple of brushes and a few miracle products. I sometimes buy the same miracle products I shouldn’t spend money on because I barely leave my apartment, what could I possibly do with a highlighter? I also have way too many probably expired lipsticks for a person who never wears lipstick because while I like how it looks, I don’t enjoy having stuff on my lips that isn’t someone else’s lips. The lipstick also doesn’t stay on for more than an hour unless it’s matte, in which case it dries my lips too much.
I do like painting my nails, or I used to, because I’m not painting them as frequently lately. I’m partial to metallic polishes but they’re a bitch to remove. Whenever I think about applying one my brain fast-forwards to it chipping in two days and spending approximately seven minutes of my life struggling to remove all of it in four days. The effort doesn’t seem worth it since I’ll be in public about 2% of that time. Then I remind myself again that I should do my nails for myself, because I enjoy looking at them, and I roll my eyes.
I’ve been thinking about this lately because I’m likely going to a wedding in August, and I’m already stressed about the amount of preparation involved. I’m supposed to do something with my hair and decide on a dress and shoes and bag and figure out what to do with my face, too. I want to look polished, but I’ll have to settle for my minimal makeup and come across as ghostly in photos. I can attempt to give off a boho vibe, maybe the other guests will assume I’m not wearing visible makeup because that’s my personality and not because I don’t know how to apply eyeshadow at 37. It’s not far from the truth.
I’m also wary of going alone, I hope there will be at least a few familiar faces there. I enjoy weddings. Getting married on the brink of the world ending is equal parts heartwarming and hopeful. So I want to have fun, which involves dancing for hours on end, but I’ll feel self-conscious doing that by myself. People may think I’m unhinged. Also not far from the truth, but no one who doesn’t subscribe to this newsletter needs to know it.
If this were a rom-com, the guy with the memorable back would be at the wedding, preferably wearing the same T-shirt. If I were him, I’d wear it all the time, though I’m guessing he doesn’t see his own back often, who knows. He would be single, we’d lock eyes as I gracelessly stuff an appetizer in my mouth, and he would immediately be enchanted. We’d then go outside and chat for most of the night because the next best thing to dancing for hours on end is talking about an obscure movie only the two of you care about. Eventually, we’d realize we have little in common beyond said movie. Best case, we’d spend a few quality minutes in his parked car, and go our separate ways.
I would return to nurturing the low-key crush I have on this weird-looking skinny dude who gives off the impression that he thinks deep thoughts and is sadly unavailable. And I’d wonder why I don’t have someone to caress my velvety soft thigh as I put zero effort into finding him.
But soulmates are supposed to find each other. Right?
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Love the lusty intimate thoughts!
I wonder what would have happened if you had... um... accidentally... bumped into him. Maybe the next red light. Maybe also drop something. Ask for help 🤭