Hope Dies Last

Sometimes I think he broke up with me because I didn’t shave my legs.

Now, before y’all think I err on the hairy side of feminism, LET ME EXPLAIN.

Every three weeks for the last five years I remove my leg hairs with wax. This has undeniably made a difference to the overall quantity and texture of my hair. It now grows back much thinner, lighter and in patches as opposed to thick, dark and all over the place. (There really is no poetic way of discussing body hair.)

The only problem with this method is the one awkward hairy week right before my appointment.

In winter and in singledom, this week is fine. But in summer and in coupledom, this week is tricky. So for two of the six weeks we were together, I was howdoIputthis not exactly smooth. Sure the thought of shaving did cross my mind. But I could not bring myself to put a razor on my legs. I could not bring myself to waste the five years of patient waxing simply because I was seeing some guy.

I also didn’t  really care. I felt sexy and pretty and great, even if my legs felt like porcupine edges of a hedgehog. Admittedly I didn’t want him running his hands down my legs during those between appointment days. And when he did, I would push my face under his arm and say, ‘I know it doesn’t feel good but in five days I’ll be smooth again. Promise.’  He didn’t seem to mind. But having said,  I also thought he really liked me. This turned out to be wrong.  So in the absence of any real information on the matter, sometimes I think that hebroke up with me because I didn’t shave my legs.

(WHAT? It is totally within the realm of possibility.)

Regardless of his attitude towards my body hair, I often think about my attitude to this scenario. Does the fact that I wasn’t motivated to shave my legs for this man mean that I didn’t like him enough? Or does it mean that–finally–at 28 I’m comfortable in my own skin? Does it mean that I have accepted my body the way it is?

Because despite its imperfections on hairy days or bloated days or fat days I still feel sexy. The truth is that I feel my sensuality within me all the time. It lies beneath the surface of my flawed skin. It’s not written on smooth, almost airbrushed legs.  Rather I feel it in the way that I swing my hips when I walk. My sensuality isn’t only revealed in a lacy, push-up bra;  rather I feel it when I touch my collarbone. I feel it when my breasts rise ever so slightly when I breath.

And so if I feel happy (and sexy) the way I am and if I chose not to change this because of a man, I’ve got to ask:

Is this what it feels like to be confident?

Is this what it fees like to be a real woman?

My eyes are closed and my head is spinning from one too many vodkas. He is sitting on the edge of my bed waiting. I’m not sure for what exactly. I can feel him stand up and then sit back down. I mutter, ‘You’re drunk. Sleep on the futon.’ He stands up again. Then he sits back down and whispers, ‘I have to go.’  The disparity between words and action confuses me but I don’t have any time to question it because suddenly his lips are on mine.

My entire body wakes up. It is unexpected. But inevitable. I want this. I want this desperately.  But I don’t kiss back. My lips are numb. 

He has a girlfriend.

He stops. He stands up. Then immediately sits back down. And the only words I can think of saying are, ‘You cannot do this.’

But it is pointless. He kisses me again. And this time I give in. I kiss him back. It is a slow and curious kiss. Our tongues search for an answer to a question that remains elusive.  He strokes my hair with one hand and with his other he cups my chin to meet his lips. He whispers ‘Dammit. You are so lovely‘ into my mouth and my mouth catches his words and I swallow them whole. It is wrong and I know it. He is not mine to kiss. His compliments are not mine to receive. His face is not mine to stroke.

Just as unexpectedly as it started, it ends. My eyes are closed and my head is spinning from one too many illicit kisses. I hear my front door close softly. He is gone. I am alone.Everything is as it was.

Except now I know that I am weak enough to cross lines that I shouldn’t.

It was early morning and for a woman who doesn’t take sales as seriously as her gender shoulds her to take them, I was on my way to Zara.It was pouring down with rain. A fitting tribute to the state of my mind. Feeling pessimistic, I was surprised to find a parking space only ten short steps away from my destination. Most spaces in Athens require parallel parking; a manoeuvre that I have just about mastered and could do with my eyes half closed.

On this particular day however my over confidence got the better of me. It could have been the rain, it could have been the greyness of my mood and the earliness of the morning but as I reversed and turned, I nipped the stationary car next to me.

It was early, cold and raining and there was no one else on the road. Not a single soul. My instinct was to jump out and inspect the damage I had caused. Thankfully, it was minimal; nothing a paint job couldn’t fix. No indentations just a tiny scratch. I then took a photo of my handiwork. Still not a single soul. I felt that I needed a presence; some other person to tell me what to do. Perhaps, a crowd. To condone me for my appalling parking skills or to applaud me for my humanity.

But as with most events in my life, it was just me, the rain and this drama I had created.

‘I could leave and no one would ever know it was me‘ I thought.

Instead, I parked (making sure not to hit him again) and wrote a note on the back of a receipt.

Dear Black Astra Driver,

I am so sorry. I accidentally bumped into the left side of your car as I was parking. My number is [redacted]. Please call me. I’d like to make it up to you. Again, I am so sorry!

I left the note on his windshield and went home. My shopping plans canceled. Thankful that the darkness of my mood was now–at the very least–confirmed by a concrete reason.

My number was never used for reasons I do not understand. But every now and again, I think of that day. My action and then my reaction. I think about the way that I took responsibility. I think about that thought that ran through my mind while I was there in the moment. How easy it could have been to avoid, to ignore, to deny and to carry on shopping because there was no other human around to notice the damage I had caused. How easy it would be to carry on living and never acknowledge the inconvenience I may have caused another person.

And then I think about the men (and friends) that have denied me a conversation. I think about the people that have refused to take responsibility for the scars they have left me. I have defended these people because that is the way I am wired. I can find a justification to almost all the bad things that have been done to me.   Tragic [and extreme] case in point: I can find no hatred within me for the person who stabbed my father to death. This was the early 90s in South Africa; apartheid was the parent of all black people and my father was white.  His dying will never be justified to me.  But–in my mind–the actions of the man who held that knife can be justified by that much larger social issue.

But then I realize that I had a choice on that day. A split second choice between running away or admitting I made a mistake and accepting the consequences. Whatever those may have been. If I had that choice, then most of us [barring the sociopaths among us] have that choice. And I think to myself that I’d like to meet a man who takes responsibility for his actions. A man who mans up and has the awkward conversation with me. I am not interested in a person who has witnessed the pain they have caused me and chosen to look the other way. I am not interested in a person who takes the easy way out. [Even though I can understand the reasons that they do.]

Some may argue that this is a high expectation. But I think it is probably the very least we should expect from one another.

Some compassion.

A little acknowledgment of our own mistakes.

Some sort of sincere regret.

I’ll take it.

Even if it is in the form of a hastily written apology on the back of a forgotten receipt stuffed underneath a windshield wiper.

A little before Christmas I was chatting to an acquaintance, when her gaze rose above my head and her smile broadened. I did not need to move at all to know it was him. Twenty minutes earlier I had whispered to A, ‘I have a feeling he’s going to be here tonight. And that he’ll be with a woman.’

It was all said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone; I did not want The Universe to hear me and then reward me with my very own self-fulfilling prophecy. There are times when all I want is to be is right. And then there are times when I want to be as wrong as torture. This was one of those times. I jumped from my rented seat at their table and turned to face his enigmatic smile. Was this the mischievous grin of a player? Was it the uncomfortable smirk of a nice guy in an awkward spot? I don’t know.

(I don’t even know the reason I am analyzing a smile.Oh wait I do. Because I can.)

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Back to my table so that you can sit.’ [Singular. I refused to acknowledge the tall, leggy, blond, red lipped warm blooded woman standing directly next to him.]

I returned to my side of the bar and quickly decided that my only mission for the next hour would be to not look in his direction. I was successful for exactly one minute and 34 seconds. My self-control is NOT what legends are made of. I dropped a paper cut thin glance at him. At the exact same moment, he dropped an even more casual, sideways glance at me.

Hook

Line

Sinker.

To say that his split second acknowledgment of me meant nothing would be a big, fat lie. Emboldened and uncharacteristically confident, I returned to his table ten minutes later. I conversed happily with our mutual acquaintance. I bantered with him–as we did during our entire affair. A pair of rams butting heads. Knowing that his attention was now reserved for another woman,  our past and present clashes felt playful not pathological. Up close his shiny lady-friend was less attractive than I had initially thought. To say that made me feel better would also be a big, fat lie. It didn’t. She is a woman; I am a girl. She has him; I don’t.

Without much fanfare, it dawned on me. All this time I have been avoiding, fighting, denying. I’m certain that you all probably know where I am going with this. This is how blind-spots work. Everyone else sees clearly except for the driver.

I fell in love with this man.

That night in bed I cried; a short drizzle but a cry nonetheless. It wasn’t a cry spurred on by pain, or jealousy, or unrequited want. They weren’t tears of self-pity or of desperation; of unfairness or frustration.

These were, at long last, farewell tears. A final nail in the coffin of not meant to be.

And with that I was free.

Dearest Anon,

I received a phone call from a blocked number the other day. I thought it was you. For no other reason than if this was four months ago it would have been you. Two missed calls– blocked–one after the other. I racked my brain to think of an alternative. Who else would call me a little before 9 p.m? My bank–who also hides their number–don’t call that late to harass me.

It must have been you, I hoped. Or maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know.

Days later it occurred to me that it could have been Zara. Earlier that day I had asked for a pair of black boots. They told me they would call to confirm if they had them in my size.

Now a pair of black, flat boots that are not too pointy and not too round are hard to find and so naturally I was confused.

Did I want that blocked number to have been you? Or my boots?

There was simply no choice.

I wanted the boots.  I chose shoes over you.

I think we can now safely assume that in leaving me, you left me beautifully unbroken.

E