Hot Mess

**Disclaimer: Poor language choices to follow. Perhaps it shows the extremities of my messiness**

 

I am a hot fucking mess.

There is sand stuck to my exposed skin, laced between my toes, and caught in my windblown hair from yoga class this morning, held on the beach on this cold and damp and EARLY morning.

A freshly penned speeding ticket sits in the passenger side of my Prius. I mean, come on, isn’t the trooper aware that my car is unable to maintain speeds past 65 mph without beginning to tremble? I’m not exactly a threat on the road.

I had no time to put on makeup before, so my blonde eyelashes look like the white falsies that a drag-queen might wear to a diva competition and my brows, almost the same overly-milked-oatmealish color as my skin, look nonexistent. I must’ve scratched the side of my face while I slept, because I noticed a red gash stretching across my cheek. I squeeze my eyes tightly, trying to recall the dream from the night before that caused my abrasiveness. No memories though.

My finger nail polish is chipped: noticeably so. My toes too. Crap. I look like a hot fucking mess.

I focus on myself internally. That’s what really matters, right?

I am completely horrified by the idea of letting anyone else get emotionally close again. I can thank my ex-husband for that psychological damage. I was trying to explain it to someone the other day. Someone important. Someone who I SHOULD let in.

But I won’t.

“I mean, what are you trying to say Kir, do you want me to go away?”

“No, no, I mean what I’m saying is… I don’t know what I’m saying…”

“Just say the word, and I’ll be out of your life.”

“No, I just… no, what I’m saying is… Don’t waste your time. This is never going to go further. I don’t want to lie to you or pretend that it will.”

“I get it. I’m here.”

Wait, what? I’m four steps from crazy town, and he’s sticking around?

I guess I can see that I have something to offer. I can shower away the sticky sand, comb out my wild hair. I’ll be able to pay this ticket without it leading me straight to poverty. I can spend some time in front of the bathroom mirror: put on mascara, tame my eyebrows, cover up the red mark on my face.

And the scars will fade.

But they’ll never vanish.

Author

Sometimes living life at its maximum, sometimes barely eking by. Trying to get through parenting with a modicum of sanity intact.

2 comments

  1. I have a prius and got a ticket also. Go to court. Plead not guulty. The prosecuter would rather plea it out with you than have to pay a jury to have trial. I caved ay 100.00 no points, but I watched the guy who was sitting beside me hold his ground and she let him go with a warning.

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