bathroom, where I brushed my teeth first. Teasing myself by not rushing added immeasurably to the thrill of shedding the old life, putting on the new. But enough of that.
I stripped, kicking my boots out into the bedroom, and dumping my clothes in the trash.
A short shower rid myself completely of the stench of my old clothes, and then I anointed myself with just a little of this, a little of that ... But enough of that .
I pulled the new clothes out of their bag, stripped them of their tags and stuff and dumped it in the trash (the first time I had ever thrown away pins), tossing the clean clothes onto the surgically spotless bedroom floor. Then it was time to dress, and although I couldn't be Desirée all the way yet, I could imagine the missing accessory already, which put me almost solidly there.
Out in the bedroom, I stepped into the jeans and was pulling them up when I felt resistance at mid-thigh. Glancing back to check what was wrong, I stuck.
The wall behind me was mirrors and my movement drew my eye. Full-length mirrors had not been part of my life. I felt like a butterfly pinned to cardboard, both fixed in my stupid position, and fixed in my gaze. That person was both a stranger and worse—me—the me I had dumped years ago. I had never seen so much of myself before, and at this crucial time in my transformation, I hardly needed memories intruding.
Anyway, I couldn't wear this . The bitch had given me the wrong size. These jeans were not shape-camouflage—the only style I had worn all my adult life, except for the bank uniform that made me walk with my eyes down—the polyester blouse that gapped just wrongly, and the laugh-at-me black skirt. Ugh! Once retrenched from the bank, I had never needed any other outfit than the one I always wore. Ultra-baggy shirt, ultra-baggy pants, everything in black. I didn't use a belt for the pants, though the waist stuck out behind like an open shopping bag. The shirt covered all.
Gordon once asked me why I wore this—a silly question. I pointed out that everyone in Bettawong wears baggies (who isn't a pensioner or public housing type, or a magistrate or something, but, say, everyone in Nostramamma's), and mostly in black, including Gordon. He dropped the subject.
I had a few boyfriends before I left Wooronga Station, who said they liked the way I looked, but once I got to Sydney Uni, the big hurts started coming, without even laughter, and always, it seemed, in tender moments of post-coital intimacy. These comments were so blandly objective, so helpfully accusatory, that I stopped allowing myself to be led into vulnerability, and adopted body camouflage. I was not depressed at the situation. Rather, I was relieved.
And once I knew my writing intentions and the heaviness of the places I was trying to break into, the panache of celibacy gave weight to my gravitas, especially since the body image I ideally needed—it was clear from the black-and-white bio pics—jutting collarbones, jutting hipbones, a hard-edged sharecropper face shadowed by long-fingered, veiny hands—this look was unachievable for me, no matter what I ate. I had hoped that it wouldn't matter, that I could do a Garbo and hide. Be lauded, loved, and celebrated—in absentia.
It was Brett who made me realize that hiding was hopelessly naive. That I couldn't be a name without a face, without a look. I had to be seen, with a look as important as the book, for fame, lasting fame. Not only that, but a look that suits my book, that fits my name, Desirée Lily.
Names came back to me. Little Bustle , from my father. Peaches , Rockers (my brother Angus's abbreviation for Rockmelons), and variations on that theme.
I remembered my other brother Stuart's party trick at shearing time (biggest audience then) of balancing a mug of tea on my bum while I had my hands full and couldn't do a thing. The mug always fell off, but only after teetering for the longest while. If I shook it off, I exacerbated the
I stripped, kicking my boots out into the bedroom, and dumping my clothes in the trash.
A short shower rid myself completely of the stench of my old clothes, and then I anointed myself with just a little of this, a little of that ... But enough of that .
I pulled the new clothes out of their bag, stripped them of their tags and stuff and dumped it in the trash (the first time I had ever thrown away pins), tossing the clean clothes onto the surgically spotless bedroom floor. Then it was time to dress, and although I couldn't be Desirée all the way yet, I could imagine the missing accessory already, which put me almost solidly there.
Out in the bedroom, I stepped into the jeans and was pulling them up when I felt resistance at mid-thigh. Glancing back to check what was wrong, I stuck.
The wall behind me was mirrors and my movement drew my eye. Full-length mirrors had not been part of my life. I felt like a butterfly pinned to cardboard, both fixed in my stupid position, and fixed in my gaze. That person was both a stranger and worse—me—the me I had dumped years ago. I had never seen so much of myself before, and at this crucial time in my transformation, I hardly needed memories intruding.
Anyway, I couldn't wear this . The bitch had given me the wrong size. These jeans were not shape-camouflage—the only style I had worn all my adult life, except for the bank uniform that made me walk with my eyes down—the polyester blouse that gapped just wrongly, and the laugh-at-me black skirt. Ugh! Once retrenched from the bank, I had never needed any other outfit than the one I always wore. Ultra-baggy shirt, ultra-baggy pants, everything in black. I didn't use a belt for the pants, though the waist stuck out behind like an open shopping bag. The shirt covered all.
Gordon once asked me why I wore this—a silly question. I pointed out that everyone in Bettawong wears baggies (who isn't a pensioner or public housing type, or a magistrate or something, but, say, everyone in Nostramamma's), and mostly in black, including Gordon. He dropped the subject.
I had a few boyfriends before I left Wooronga Station, who said they liked the way I looked, but once I got to Sydney Uni, the big hurts started coming, without even laughter, and always, it seemed, in tender moments of post-coital intimacy. These comments were so blandly objective, so helpfully accusatory, that I stopped allowing myself to be led into vulnerability, and adopted body camouflage. I was not depressed at the situation. Rather, I was relieved.
And once I knew my writing intentions and the heaviness of the places I was trying to break into, the panache of celibacy gave weight to my gravitas, especially since the body image I ideally needed—it was clear from the black-and-white bio pics—jutting collarbones, jutting hipbones, a hard-edged sharecropper face shadowed by long-fingered, veiny hands—this look was unachievable for me, no matter what I ate. I had hoped that it wouldn't matter, that I could do a Garbo and hide. Be lauded, loved, and celebrated—in absentia.
It was Brett who made me realize that hiding was hopelessly naive. That I couldn't be a name without a face, without a look. I had to be seen, with a look as important as the book, for fame, lasting fame. Not only that, but a look that suits my book, that fits my name, Desirée Lily.
Names came back to me. Little Bustle , from my father. Peaches , Rockers (my brother Angus's abbreviation for Rockmelons), and variations on that theme.
I remembered my other brother Stuart's party trick at shearing time (biggest audience then) of balancing a mug of tea on my bum while I had my hands full and couldn't do a thing. The mug always fell off, but only after teetering for the longest while. If I shook it off, I exacerbated the
Similar Books
