Our friend Rosella is staying with us this week, and she is just about the loveliest woman that ever was. She is likely somewhere in her fifties, tall, long thin legs, glorious hair, soft, fair skin. She is always saying something positive, like how our dinner is divine or the best dinner in the whole universe. She has been staying in the room next to mine and I am sad to see her leave as she continues her vacation south.
For the chicken coop dwellers here at the ranch, we have mens and womens bath-houses, and last night I had the great privilege of going to the bath-house after Rosella had taken a shower. I would bet my first-born that I have never made a shower room smell so lovely.
For six years I’ve used Dr Bronners peppermint or lavender soap, and I guess my shampoo smells alright, but it’s nothing special. I use unscented deodorant (let’s be real, when I remember to use it). The only time I’ve ever even owned perfume was when I worked for an insurance agent as a receptionist and he gave all of his employees Mary Kay perfume for Christmas. And I can guarantee that it never got lifted from out of its gaudy purple and electric blue box.
For this first decade of my career, I have been a camp counselor, a whitewater guide, an afterschool program leader, a high school PE teacher, an outdoor educator, and the very occasional side job of floral delivery, t-shirt screen-printing, and the afore mentioned insurance agent receptionist. The insurance agency was hands-down the job where I needed to dress the nicest; and it was during my year at Oregon College of Art and Craft where I would show up having not slept in two days, my hands covered in printing inks. The last four years of teaching at the Waldorf School in Portland meant that I wore yoga pants, a t-shirt, and a fleece, with the very occasional Assembly Day where I chose a skirt that was still likely made out of stretchy polypro material. It seems that the majority of clothing I have bought in the last decade has been for outdoor adventures, things made of performance materials, down pullovers, waterproof what-not.
One of my most feminine statements...girly mountain bike fashion.
As I approach the beginning of my fourth decade on earth, I think I’d like something made of cotton. I think I’d like shoes that are just cute and not 100% functional. I think I’d like to smell nice, not even just better than I have, which let’s face it, would not be hard. Maybe I’d like some jewelry that is not made out of string.
I mean, I’m not talking about stilettos here, I’m just thinking maybe something non-fleece, non-stretchy, something with a little shimmer. I’m not talking Mary Kay perfume sets, but maybe a fancy Dr Hauschka lotion. Last night around the dinner table, Heather and I laughed hard as I asked Rosella, “How do you even put on perfume?” And she responded with, “Well, just go to the Dolce & Gabbana counter and try it out.” (P.S. I definitely had to look up how to spell Dolce & Gabbana)
Last spring my friend Lindsay and I went to our local New Seasons Market after drinking margaritas at our favorite Portland eatery. We found ourselves in the personal care section, probably looking for a tube of travel toothpaste for me to take on a backpacking trip, and ended up in the make-up aisle. We proceeded to engage in a tequila-induced makeover, trying on eye shadows and lip gloss like we were 14. The New Seasons’ employee got a real kick out of us and suggested I purchase this “steal” of a make-up set that is half-made of glitter. It quickly found its way into my shopping basket and into the “girl you’ll be a woman soon” section of my heart. The New Season’s personal care section is no Dolce & Gabbana, but that has to count for something.
I told Rosella how nice it was to walk into the shower room after her and how I desire to reinvent myself in these feminine ways. She said, “It’s a form of nesting.”
Ah! Nesting! That makes me want to curse! There is maybe no word more terrifying or blasphemous in these first 29 years! Still, I maintain my composure and she continues…
“It’s a nesting right here,” she gestures to her heart, a thin and strong hand clenching the intersection of her ribs at her chest.
I stop holding my breath. The curse words disappear from the tip of my tongue. I realize I’ve been had. Not by Rosella and her thick red hair, petite structure, and glorious smelling lotion. No, I’ve been had by a decade of waterproof attire and sweat pants.
It’s not that developing that sort of rustic femininity is a waste. It too is glorious and important. What’s more attractive than smelling like outside, dirt under your fingernails, and awkward tan lines? I don’t struggle terribly with body image, maybe because I have always been strong, always been pushing rubber rafts down rivers, hiking along rugged coastlines, or fishing in creeks behind my childhood home. Maybe because I’ve only had stretchy pants and never noticed if my thighs or waist got bigger or smaller, pants still fit, who could tell? Side ponytails are totally hip, right? I mean, in the last year I did start brushing my hair…Oh my, it’s been a slow process.
It is like getting to reinvent myself, even if only in the context of fashion. Maybe I am adjusting the outside to match the changes I’m making inside? Maybe I am becoming more comfortable with putting new parts of myself forward in my appearance just like I am with my soul or personal interactions.
I did transition from 70-some nights in a sleeping bag on the ground to a wood-frame bed with down comforters pretty easily. Maybe this transition to non-yoga-pants, skirts with zippers, and aromatic shampoo won’t be so hard after all? I’ll keep you posted.
Until then…here’s a yoga-pants-hoodie-sand-in-my-half-brushed-hair-cartwheel.
'Atta girl, Val!
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