After Margaret Atwood's "Miss July Grows Older"
How much longer can I be this hot?
I hate men who call me "hot"
and mourn for a time when men cooed
to a woman, "You're lovely, beautiful,
radiant, gorgeous," or when they simply stopped,
stared, and were left speechless.
But back to the question at hand...
How much longer can this go on?
The moisturizer, foundation, concealer,
blush, lipstick, eyeliner, brow liner, mascara,
eye-shadow, tweezing here and there...
Not to mention the waxing, veeting, shaving,
lotioning, painting. And don't get me started
on the plasti-boobs. Only for special occasions,
I assure you. I do wonder who I am doing it for.
Don't get me wrong: I love the feel of putty,
Man-putty in my hands. But, O God, how I tire of it all.
When I was out on the ocean, riding my raft,
I had this moment, just a moment, mind you,
of peace. All the mascara had washed away,
my damp hair was matted to my head,
I lay there, free of underwires and spandex,
And I swear, it felt so good to not be "hot."