Downhill

I took the light rail early this morning, skipping my morning editing before work (something I’ve been skipping a little too often) because today I have photo shoots to attend and sections to design and meetings and our boss is off for the week, so that means a few extra sections to divvy up and I didn’t really feel like being at work until 7 tonight.
The light rail was oddly peaceful. Too early for the drunks, just late enough to miss the work crowd and I took my new book out, barely noticing each stop. What if I just kept going? What if I missed my street? What if I rode this thing past Van Buren/Downtown all the way to Tempe and then back? I think that’s when you know you have a good read – when the point is to get lost.

When I got off, I followed a young man wearing all black – skinny jeans with his calves bulging from the fabric like pregnancy, a sheer black button-up, black shoes, black hair, dark skin, ray bans, ear buds. He sucked down a cigarette nub and flicked it when he was done like a bad date. When he walked, he was beautiful – quick steps, light feet, imaginary heels pushing those monster muscles up.

Wherever he learned to do that, sign me up! I’ve been walking like a little girl for most of my life – wandering with my hands in my pockets, not caring about my posture, taking long, fast strides. The way I walk always reminds me of French Kiss, that Meg Ryan movie where Kevin Kline tells her she walks like a woman, but also like a little girl.
My step-dad told me once I walked like my mom and maybe that’s where it came from – genetics or copying who I wanted to be: My mom and older brother combined – which is an odd mix, but explains the tomboyish gait.
I think the longer I’m in my body, the less sexy I feel. It’s routine, the way my legs squeegee against each other and the small speed bumps sedentary on my chest; the way some people look at women with short hair like we’re all lesbians which is just as ridiculous as saying all African Americans hate skiing and all Caucasian men over 55 need Viagra (this might be true) and all Californians surf to school and all men with long hair are gay. May I remind you of Audrey Hepburn and Halle Berry and Emma Watson and Natalie Portman. And may I also remind you of Megan Rapinoe and Anne Heche and Chris Hemsworth as Thor with his long luscious locks. Like we aren’t judged for enough things already.
But I hope sexiness is like most things in life – it cycles. And after the climb there’s a smooth downhill ride where our inner sex-pots never falter in those imaginary 4″ stilettos.

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2 Responses to Downhill

  1. Ms. Moon says:

    I got rid of a boyfriend once who said I walked “too hard.” I’m still pissed off and it’s been thirty years.

    • rachvb says:

      Good riddance! Those ones stay with you – the things old boyfriends or even other people say about your body, the way you walk, eat, talk. It’s hard to ever get over those ones. In junior high some boy called me a hunchback because I slouch more often than not and I really do try to be aware of it, but when you’re 12, damn, those things sting for a long time.

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