2/25

[butterflydreaming]

Eyeliner first, a simple line in dark brown. Most of the time, people think that I am already wearing make-up (so they've told me) around my eyes. When I actually am, I wonder what I look like to others. To me, I look harder, like I'm thinking serious thoughts. And a little more awake.

Lipstick, painted over my lips. The bright, China red, blotted. The "diamond shine" red follows. I think that it looks too pinkish by itself; over the brilliant red base, it takes a dark garnet hue. A friend once told me that I have pretty lips, trying to cheer me up. I know it. My lips are my best asset after my eyes. They're like my mother's lips -- in shape, anyway.

That's all the make-up that I'll wear. It's enough for an evening, appropriate for going out to see a band play on Friday night. I'm afraid of being overdressed... not for the venue, but in comparison to my companion. I'm always overdressed; I gave up being concerned about that, if I'm going to be by myself, years ago. But urban night is more comfortably my territory than my companion's, and I want her to have a good time, since going out was my idea. Her hair is in her customary simple ponytail, and she is, as always, wearing her glasses. She's already dressed. It strikes me, as I critique my outfit in the mirror and search for a decision about shoes and hose, that she is the one who is comfortable, while I am a collection of dissatisfaction. I'm too hot; the boots look wrong, but the flats look worse; my hair should be much cuter. I think, I'm out of practice.

I'm not out of practice. I don't know how to do this, I admit to myself -- the truth. I can count on my hands the number of times that I've gone out on weekends, to a bar or a club, to play pool, to see a band play. Each of those times, I had a group of friends, who knew how to do these normal things. A moment of panic slithers beneath me. I'm supposed to be the leader in this, and I... am inexperienced.

Choosing jewelry, I pick talismanic items: the oversized heart shape that my father gave me, on a fox-herringbone silver chain, and the still-bright silver ring with the pattern of ivy leaves. The artisan told me that they symbolized something -- enlightenment, I think. I choose them after we've missed the first bus, after I've rejected a necklace of garnet bead strands. After I've pulled my loose hair and two braids into a quick ponytail. I'm not winning, tonight, but I'm not going to give up.

My companion is still calm and relaxed. Walking out to catch the bus, she even makes a joking comment on my mood, and contemplating the two of us as feudal lords pushes my anxiety temporarily out of the way. Heads on pikes. I smile to the driver as we pay our fares. I read bus poetry and manage not to be annoyed at the glaring error of a bumblebee's repetative sting. There's a mistake of route, and the bus driver has to circle back onto the bridge, and then one more bus glitch when we get downtown: the band won't be on until midnight, an hour later than we anticipated. The last bus home leaves before 1am.

We dither; I don't want to call a cab to get home. My nerves start to crumble; I've been awake since 4am, and sick for the last seven days, with a strange body ache that pulls like a rubberband remaining, though the other symptoms have diminished. We're early for the first opening band, even, so we wander around the adjacent blocks, checking the bus stops for another route that runs late into West Seattle. There is one other option. It would mean a mile walk home, but that would at least be downhill. Until just after 10 o'clock, we drink green tea in a restaurant. I eat like a geisha, trying not to erase my lipstick.

And somehow, I last through two hours of body heat and crowding and cigarette smoke. The lead singer of Saeta sings from the throat, an unsustainably affected style. Their songs are dirges, and they bludgeon "Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me". No one should ever cover Morrissey. The Bad Things put on a high-energy, circus-like performance, and they have a strong following on the crowded floor. By the time the swaying and the not-sing-along begins, I've realized that they only have one song, with six or seven different sets of bad lyrics. It doesn't matter how cute the guy playing the upright is; they need to get off the stage. When, at last, they do, it's minutes before midnight. I make a Note To Self, several times, to wear skimpier clothing on future occasions.

The little latina woman behind us keeps me sane with her rant about the willowy bitch that elbows in front of us and blocks line-of-sight. The tall woman said that she was "just going to tap someone's shoulder", but instead moves into place and stays.

A red, sequined shawl sparkles onstage.

DeVotchKa begins their first song of the night.

. . .