Examining My Skin.

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons
that oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes

-Emily Dickinson

An excerpt from one of my most favorite Dickinson poems. It often pops into my head at random times, mostly when things are oppressive...or whenever I notice a certain slant of light. Okay, so it's not exactly winter- far from it, actually. This year, thanks to probably a bigger picture we are choosing to quietly ignore (global warming) we have had one of the longest Indian Summer's in the history of weather.

Every morning I get up, open my windows and stick my arm out into the city sky hoping for the least bit of chill. Every morning I convince myself that because it is October, jeans and perhaps a light sweater will be fine. Every morning, I am mistaken. The nights are still reminiscent of the balmy beginnings of July, when you breathe a sigh of relief to shed as many layers as possible and prance around the streets in short shorts and tank tops, the humidity blanketing your skin. Sweat still forms on my brow whenever I walk more than 3 blocks, and at night, the air heavy with heat, the streets still smell like the garbage that has been cooking in the sun on the curb all day.

Instead of embracing the sunny days and blanket warm nights I usually yearn for from January to June, I have taken quite a different attitude. I have kind of just stopped getting ready for anything in the morning (some may call this depression, i call it protestation).

Like today, I wandered around the city in this weird sort of state where I felt sort of like I was floating, enjoying my surroundings for the most part, but feeling a little detached I guess you could say. I had stayed up until 4:30 am the night before, so when my alarm went off at noon, reminding me of the doctors appointment I had in an hour, I was feeling a bit groggy and lot a irritated.

Like all mornings, I checked the official weather using the arm out the window test and examined the sky looming over the Chrysler building. Looked cloudy, possibly rainy & I swear I felt a chill.

I jumped in the shower, applied my Proactiv acne treatment (my breakouts have been heinous lately), threw on baggy jeans that I fished out of the dirty laundry pile along with a ratty sweatshirt (reasoning that rain also meant cold) and ran out the door clad in wet hair and a shiny, non-makeuped face.

After my appointment I couldn't find a cab. Typical. Also, miraculously, the sun had come out and my jeans and sweatshirt no longer made the statement that I hoped they would when I left the house. I was going for: natural beauty who just doesn't care what other people think and doesn't have to. What it turned into: weird girl with greasy, zitty face and a heavy sweatshirt on in 80 degree weather.

Trying not to think about this fact, I walked from Broadway to 5th where I knew there was a glorious two story Barnes & Noble and I wouldn't have to stress while sweating on street corners trying to catch a cab. Ahhh, my sanctuary.

Even if I hadn't bought anything I would have enjoyed my time there. Just smelling all of those books together in one place is enough to turn my day around. After an hour I bought a book I found -of all embarrassing places- on the "Self-Help" table. It caught my eye because the cover is red- i have always had an affinity for red- and it is entitled " What Should I Do with My Life". Also, the author looked hot.

As a person, standing there in a Barnes and Noble of 45th and 5th on an idle Wednesday doing nothing but killing time in dirty jeans, a ratty sweatshirt and half-wet scraggly, too-long hair, sweat on my brow despite the air conditioning...I was pretty sure this was a question i could use a little help in answering. So i picked it up quickly and then slowly stepped away from the giant sign that advertised me, picking up a book in the self-help section.

I bought it, putting it face down on the counter in front of the sales clerk, as not to be judged. i really didn't need to be judged today.

Pleased with myself, and eager to get home and begin reading, I walked back into the desert that is Manhattan and tried for another cab. No luck. I would have to walk another avenue.

When I made it to Madison, there it was- J. Crew! The second most desirable place to my inner psyche. I figured I could go in, check out the new fall line & possibly pick up a new sweater. Then my day would be complete so it wouldn't matter if I had walked all of the 13 blocks and 4 avenues home in a heavy sweatshirt, I would have a new sweater & a new book (I am a strong advocate of retail therapy if you couldn't tell!)

I must admit, I walked in feeling kind of self conscious. I felt imaginary eyes on the weird disoriented girl in the grubby clothes pretending she fit in among the cute preppy argyles. I heard the looming voices of Stacy and Clinton from my fav TLC's "What Not To Wear" dissecting my clothing and the attitude that accompanied them. "I swear i fit in here!" I wanted to yell.

Get a grip I thought, throwing several of the cashmere argyles over my arm, you don't care what other people think - remember? This is New York City - nobody cares anyway!

and then, out of nowhere, I hear in the most casual voice possible "Hey Ali".

Arrrggghhhhh.

It wasn't too bad, but not what I needed at alllll. Some old acquaintance from high school, someone I hadn't seen since before I even wore makeup or cute clothes or had a sexy boyfriend who happened to be cuter than the one she was toting around! I guess when you run into people like that you just hope you'll look a little better than the way I looked, perhaps at least a little bronzer on will be on your cheeks and you will be able to say you have a job. Even more hopefully, a glamorous one.

Instead: I started sweating like a mad woman. Suddenly, someone turned off the air conditioning and the mountain of cashmere thrown over my arm became like a insidious tumor. I could feel the fluorescent overhead lights glowing of my glistening skin, pointing, as with arrows, to the lovely spraying of red dots along the left side of my nose.

My voice in answer to inevitable question: "Actually, I'm in between jobs right now" (Damn you honest mouth!! Why couldn't you have at least said you were working on a novel!)
Her rebuttal: "Oh, well that's okay"
My thoughts: yes! I know this is okay! I don't need you to say it!
My subconscious: not it is not okay and I am self conscious about it so I really didn't need you to say that bitch!

Seriously, she was harmless. I really should not have been so bent out of shape. Clearly, I have issues. I retreated to the dressing room shortly thereafter, if only to strip myself of the jeans- which were now sticking to my clammy skin- and the sweatshirt-which was now suffocating my rib cage. Ahhh, relief by dressing room.

I tried on everything. Nothing looked good. Have I gained weight or have J. Crew's sizes been altered this season? I decide it is a little bit of both and leave the dressing room with one sweater in my hand (a sweater I do not want, but take anyway, just in case the lady helping me is waiting outside the door to ask how I liked everything.) Yes, that is correct, I would actually go through with buying a sweater i do not particularly want just as not to offend the lady who started my fitting room. I mean, would she seriously be offended? Probably not.

Thank god, she was not outside. So I ditch the sweater on a random table and bolt out of the doors, just in time for ex- acquaintance girl to call goodbye to me before strolling away with her suit-clad boyfriend. Fabulous.

When I get home and look in the mirror, it is worse than I thought. There is this certain slant of light flooding through my kitchen window and it hits me in all of the wrong places. I strip myself of the weighty clothing standing right in front of the mirror. I note my pale, clammy face and puffy red eyes. To my knowledge, I had not been crying. Allergies? They didn't feel itchy. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?? I USED TO BE PRETTY WITHOUT MAKEUP!

The slant of light becomes more oppressive with each glint off my face. I am forced to get up close and personal with the mirror, examining my skin. Things have changed. I am sure of it. Blackheads cover the bridge of my nose like a dirty disease and the pores on my cheeks stand out like the craters on the moon. Of course, there is the lovely splash of red zits across the left side of my face, but even worse are the bumpy reddish purple areas underneath my eyes along with the faint- but very there- wrinkles.

I remember my mother telling me she bought her first jar of wrinkle cream when she was 25. Would I have to be 23?? Oh, the wrongness of it all! Talk about the oppressive weight of cathedral tunes! Stop the clock! I'm not ready for this! My inner psyche squealed.

Immediately, more Proactiv. Immediately, pajamas. Immediately, blanket. Immediately, the new book. Ahhhh, bliss.

Okay so, I know this is not exactly the weight of the world. My skin probably doesn't even look that bad. Actually, I'm pretty sure i still look damn cute when I get all done up. Not to mention, there are certainly a bazillion more weights I could find in this world to bring me down than the one brought on by a certain slant of light. I mean, people are dying, people are starving, people are disease infested and suffering while I get all bent out of shape about a couple of zits and some bumpy skin.

I could even find some deeper things within my own life to suffer about, like my own poor health or the deteriorating mind of my grandmother. Instead, I am freaking out in J. Crew over nothing and examining my bumpy skin like I have aged 100 years overnight. There has to be a reason for this imbalance.

Quite possibly, this is what makes the world turn. In reality, what did the author of my favorite poem have weighing on her shoulders? She was a loner who stayed in her house all day and never experienced any sort of real life. She wrote glorious poetry about pain and angst and love and life, she spoke to numerous people on numerous levels from numerous generations and did it all from the confines of her bedroom walls!

Perhaps i should take a lesson from good old Emily...some of the best (and by best and my worst) suffering can be done right inside the confines of your own 4 walls, when no one, no concrete thing, other than your mind is weighing you down.

The other kind of suffering, the one with reason, well, that, you can heal from in time. The other kind, just makes for really fascinating insanity and really great writers.

So from now on, I think will welcome the cathedral tunes. After all, they force you to examine your own skin.