cdchaplin10
03-08-2010, 04:07 PM
I have through my fiancee relation with a young lady who has definite body image issues. The way in which this affects her and many women of America troubles me and so I have began writing a short story about a girls lengths girls will go to attain that 'mythological Hollywood' vision of beauty. This is only the beginning of the short story and is a rewrite from a very very rough initial writing I did a year ago. As I rewrite the original, I will post more of the story here. Any comments are welcomed and encouraged. Perhaps, through this, my fiancee and I can reach this young woman troubled with the sight of her own body.
Thank you.
----
SHE HURRIED THROUGH THE CROWDS—weaving in and out—searching for that phantom-dress. It was coming and not one seemed to be fashioned properly for her. He, her newest interest, had finally asked her to the Homecoming Dance after weeks of her strategy. From subtle to blatant, she made certain that she was somehow in his sights and— more than importantly—was something he would remember. “You look great!” admired the boy as she tried on a dress last weekend. The teal sparkles shimmered off the wavering fabric of that dress as she clenched it underneath her right arm in her hurried push through the mall. She blinked tightly and sighed as the scene from last weekend swallowed her mind again. His eyes seemed to bore into the scratched and blotted mirror that afternoon. He was starring at her, eyes wide. She simply stood there, unimpressed with the teal-ish drapery that hung over her lumpy body. It clung to the waves of her white chest and fitted around her waist in a light green band. To her she looked wrapped in an insulting green blue rug; to him, it let her best parts have character and emphasis. She had little idea what he saw in that cheap dressing room mirror.
With his approval given, she reluctantly bought the teal-ish drapery; yet, now a week later, she sifted through the mall-crowds mad with fear. She returned to the department store and re-hung that rug-dress on her body and squinted to see some semblance of the sea-princess rising from the flowing teal waters that he might have seen. For just a moment, a fraction of a second, within a cracked portion of the mirror, she could see herself as that sea maiden. In the next instance, there stood a sea creature, but unlike a slender siren, stood a manatee tightly wrapped in teal. His assurances, though great and many, sunk to the ground. She was ugly.
She left that store with her money electrically buzzing back into her bank account. The dance was next weekend. This was her last chance. She pushed through the crowds again, her eyes slithering over every detail, ever store and every piece of clothing shining upon those pale white mannequins. Quite often she would peer into a window front and spot some beautiful woman, endowed with as much a structured form as the mannequins that hadn’t any life. Those women, she hated intensely; yet not for their arrogance, or common gaudiness, but instead, for their nature. Innate beauty, unattended and uncultivated was a mythology promoted by Hollywood and magazine covers, claiming transformative beauty in five easy steps. Promised figures, faces, and other features would most certainly garner the attention of a man and thus, would promote happiness and completion. This was the American woman’s new pursuit of happiness. She knew all of this of course; yet, like a playful cat realizing the photonic spot, still chases to capture its taunting form.
After the mall had been entirely searched and no store front offered anything that would fit her, she came upon an extension, dimly lit and newly opened. She had never seen this store, or the extension that it inhabited. Desperate, as she was, she had little choice but to inspect the curious little store for a dress. As she walked under the threshold she spotted the shop’s name, “Faultless Beauties” and suddenly, what little hope had germinated in her for a suitable dress was suffocated by the mythology that the name seemed to ascribe. She paused before crossing the threshold, hesitant, but something drawn in. The hunt for that phantom-dress pulled her through the doors.
Inside, the curious little store front proved deceptive of its inner size. What appeared to be an average clothing store offered both clothing, jewelry, makeup centers and a two-person hair salon nestled in the back behind the cash register. Her pallid cheeks flushed a rosy pink as hope swept through her veins. A burst of confident tingling pushed her deeper in the curious store. She looked in awe at the blouses on the wall to her left. They all seemed to be designed with her in mind, and blue jeans hung and folded seemed to have the breadth to contain her pleasingly. Yet, though amazed and honestly suspicious of how it all catered to her, her view unremittingly locked on to a center sculpture of womanhood. Her eyes lapped in the view thirstily. They were exquisitely fitted and fashioned; yet real as if un-tampered by the mythical machine currently in power. No, these female forms were delicate in nature, yet in no way frail structures teetering on starvation and collapse. Their skins were virgins to sun’s heated fingers and lacked any applied foundation to mask their rich and radiant skins. There were four in total: one petite, yet expressive Asian woman whose eyes flash an intense brown; one tall black woman with broad rich auburn lips brazenly seered into her raw earthen face, topped with protruding cheek bones; one Indian woman whose skin, like the black woman, was rich with the darkness of its pigment yet shone with a dancing light as the eye swam over each curve and detour of her flesh; and finally, there stood the last one of Hispanic origin fitted with that contrasting figure made famous by the insured bottom of J. Lo.
She averted her eyes for a moment, not wanting to offend by starring, but then questioned the life of those artless sculptures. The details of life, of the skin’s minute pores, and vibrancy of the eyes seemed to suggest life; yet they assumed the role of mannequin. “What a job,” she thought to herself. Those immaculate store-guards remained unmoved and concentrated, as if their beauty required the painful energy of the mind. She nodded with an embarrassed smile and slowly crept around their raised platform, sinking deeper into the store.
At the heart of the store an attendant approached from behind the register counter. He greeted her much in the way the four beauties had. His eyes un-movingly stretched out to her and slid over her body with ease. A smile sat on his lips as his eyes seemed to pierce her. She felt intimidated, but approached the counter, shaking, but resolved to find that evasive phantom-dress.
“Hello,” she said, her voice wavering slightly, “I was wondering if you had any dresses for a dance.” The man’s solid face suddenly collapsed and fluidly formed a smile. As if it were some natural force, his sudden delightfulness swept her up and, like a wind from heaven, carried her from the counter to a mirrored room. Her skin tingled as she stood before a flawless mirror. He stood to her left, bent over a table playing with some fabric. She kept her gaze forward, both trying to avoid locking onto his eyes and ignoring her reflection in front of her. Peripheral sight was all that she focused on. He worked for a few moments pulling fresh fabric and cutting it quickly, with a carefree discernment. A smile rose upon her lips briefly as the image of some genius artist or mad scientist washed over her mind. He did appear to be eccentric, yet adept in the manner he quickly manipulated the materials.
Suddenly, he appeared both behind her and before her as a reflection. His hands slipped up her back, following her spine and straightening her stance. Cold air quickly sunk into her throat as she became uncomfortable, yet excited by the attention. His hands slipped away from her back and gently stung her jaw as he held it and focused her attention on the mirror. He tilted her head up slightly and smiled.
“Yes, yes yes. I see something here. Oh, I do believe I can make you work much better, my dear,” he cheerily breathed. He floated back to the table and returned with a tape measure. She hated having any eyes study her body so intensely, but the man’s energy pricked her contagiously and she began to imagine what was to come of the apparent make-over he was offering. He quickly wrapped the tape measure around her waist, and then around her legs, then her arms, then her chest and so on until he had produced in measurements the sum of her body. She hated the attention he paid to her details, but knew (or perhaps, hoped) he could make her beautiful.
Again, the man vanished and reappeared now with the fabric he had played with before. It was golden and caught the light majestically as he laid it across her chest. Shimmering light sprayed around her as he held it to her body. Its silky waves fell down her flesh, impressing even her eyes. She immediately knew that the phantom was no more. She had found the dress that would work.
“Yes, I think this may work for you. Ah, Miss you will be thoroughly pleased. With you I will create my greatest work yet!” exclaimed the man with enthusiasm. “Thank you, sir,” she replied with breathless speech. She was devoured with excitement and could not will herself from not smiling. “Now, before we begin, I will ask you to sign your name on this form. It briefly outlines an agreement for my art to be displayed in public by you. My art is a quite serious subject for me. This is no simple store, but both an artist’s workshop and museum,” he explained carefully. He handed her the paper and a pen and she leaned forward, printing and signing her name with the support of the mirror. She handed both back to the man and looked back to her reflection, imaging her golden debut at the dance.
“Ah, ok Miss Rose. You shall return tomorrow, first thing in the morning, and we will create something for you; a new you, if you like!” he instructed warmly. “But for now, I have much to prepare.”
Rose smiled and rubbed the golden fabric once more through her thumbs and fingers and almost promised the cloth her hastened return. Rose bowed her head and thanked the man. Suddenly, as before, she was swept up in the man’s exuberant energy and she found herself back at the cash register. The man began working again with the luminous fabric and she was left with nothing to do but leave.
To be continued...
Thank you.
----
SHE HURRIED THROUGH THE CROWDS—weaving in and out—searching for that phantom-dress. It was coming and not one seemed to be fashioned properly for her. He, her newest interest, had finally asked her to the Homecoming Dance after weeks of her strategy. From subtle to blatant, she made certain that she was somehow in his sights and— more than importantly—was something he would remember. “You look great!” admired the boy as she tried on a dress last weekend. The teal sparkles shimmered off the wavering fabric of that dress as she clenched it underneath her right arm in her hurried push through the mall. She blinked tightly and sighed as the scene from last weekend swallowed her mind again. His eyes seemed to bore into the scratched and blotted mirror that afternoon. He was starring at her, eyes wide. She simply stood there, unimpressed with the teal-ish drapery that hung over her lumpy body. It clung to the waves of her white chest and fitted around her waist in a light green band. To her she looked wrapped in an insulting green blue rug; to him, it let her best parts have character and emphasis. She had little idea what he saw in that cheap dressing room mirror.
With his approval given, she reluctantly bought the teal-ish drapery; yet, now a week later, she sifted through the mall-crowds mad with fear. She returned to the department store and re-hung that rug-dress on her body and squinted to see some semblance of the sea-princess rising from the flowing teal waters that he might have seen. For just a moment, a fraction of a second, within a cracked portion of the mirror, she could see herself as that sea maiden. In the next instance, there stood a sea creature, but unlike a slender siren, stood a manatee tightly wrapped in teal. His assurances, though great and many, sunk to the ground. She was ugly.
She left that store with her money electrically buzzing back into her bank account. The dance was next weekend. This was her last chance. She pushed through the crowds again, her eyes slithering over every detail, ever store and every piece of clothing shining upon those pale white mannequins. Quite often she would peer into a window front and spot some beautiful woman, endowed with as much a structured form as the mannequins that hadn’t any life. Those women, she hated intensely; yet not for their arrogance, or common gaudiness, but instead, for their nature. Innate beauty, unattended and uncultivated was a mythology promoted by Hollywood and magazine covers, claiming transformative beauty in five easy steps. Promised figures, faces, and other features would most certainly garner the attention of a man and thus, would promote happiness and completion. This was the American woman’s new pursuit of happiness. She knew all of this of course; yet, like a playful cat realizing the photonic spot, still chases to capture its taunting form.
After the mall had been entirely searched and no store front offered anything that would fit her, she came upon an extension, dimly lit and newly opened. She had never seen this store, or the extension that it inhabited. Desperate, as she was, she had little choice but to inspect the curious little store for a dress. As she walked under the threshold she spotted the shop’s name, “Faultless Beauties” and suddenly, what little hope had germinated in her for a suitable dress was suffocated by the mythology that the name seemed to ascribe. She paused before crossing the threshold, hesitant, but something drawn in. The hunt for that phantom-dress pulled her through the doors.
Inside, the curious little store front proved deceptive of its inner size. What appeared to be an average clothing store offered both clothing, jewelry, makeup centers and a two-person hair salon nestled in the back behind the cash register. Her pallid cheeks flushed a rosy pink as hope swept through her veins. A burst of confident tingling pushed her deeper in the curious store. She looked in awe at the blouses on the wall to her left. They all seemed to be designed with her in mind, and blue jeans hung and folded seemed to have the breadth to contain her pleasingly. Yet, though amazed and honestly suspicious of how it all catered to her, her view unremittingly locked on to a center sculpture of womanhood. Her eyes lapped in the view thirstily. They were exquisitely fitted and fashioned; yet real as if un-tampered by the mythical machine currently in power. No, these female forms were delicate in nature, yet in no way frail structures teetering on starvation and collapse. Their skins were virgins to sun’s heated fingers and lacked any applied foundation to mask their rich and radiant skins. There were four in total: one petite, yet expressive Asian woman whose eyes flash an intense brown; one tall black woman with broad rich auburn lips brazenly seered into her raw earthen face, topped with protruding cheek bones; one Indian woman whose skin, like the black woman, was rich with the darkness of its pigment yet shone with a dancing light as the eye swam over each curve and detour of her flesh; and finally, there stood the last one of Hispanic origin fitted with that contrasting figure made famous by the insured bottom of J. Lo.
She averted her eyes for a moment, not wanting to offend by starring, but then questioned the life of those artless sculptures. The details of life, of the skin’s minute pores, and vibrancy of the eyes seemed to suggest life; yet they assumed the role of mannequin. “What a job,” she thought to herself. Those immaculate store-guards remained unmoved and concentrated, as if their beauty required the painful energy of the mind. She nodded with an embarrassed smile and slowly crept around their raised platform, sinking deeper into the store.
At the heart of the store an attendant approached from behind the register counter. He greeted her much in the way the four beauties had. His eyes un-movingly stretched out to her and slid over her body with ease. A smile sat on his lips as his eyes seemed to pierce her. She felt intimidated, but approached the counter, shaking, but resolved to find that evasive phantom-dress.
“Hello,” she said, her voice wavering slightly, “I was wondering if you had any dresses for a dance.” The man’s solid face suddenly collapsed and fluidly formed a smile. As if it were some natural force, his sudden delightfulness swept her up and, like a wind from heaven, carried her from the counter to a mirrored room. Her skin tingled as she stood before a flawless mirror. He stood to her left, bent over a table playing with some fabric. She kept her gaze forward, both trying to avoid locking onto his eyes and ignoring her reflection in front of her. Peripheral sight was all that she focused on. He worked for a few moments pulling fresh fabric and cutting it quickly, with a carefree discernment. A smile rose upon her lips briefly as the image of some genius artist or mad scientist washed over her mind. He did appear to be eccentric, yet adept in the manner he quickly manipulated the materials.
Suddenly, he appeared both behind her and before her as a reflection. His hands slipped up her back, following her spine and straightening her stance. Cold air quickly sunk into her throat as she became uncomfortable, yet excited by the attention. His hands slipped away from her back and gently stung her jaw as he held it and focused her attention on the mirror. He tilted her head up slightly and smiled.
“Yes, yes yes. I see something here. Oh, I do believe I can make you work much better, my dear,” he cheerily breathed. He floated back to the table and returned with a tape measure. She hated having any eyes study her body so intensely, but the man’s energy pricked her contagiously and she began to imagine what was to come of the apparent make-over he was offering. He quickly wrapped the tape measure around her waist, and then around her legs, then her arms, then her chest and so on until he had produced in measurements the sum of her body. She hated the attention he paid to her details, but knew (or perhaps, hoped) he could make her beautiful.
Again, the man vanished and reappeared now with the fabric he had played with before. It was golden and caught the light majestically as he laid it across her chest. Shimmering light sprayed around her as he held it to her body. Its silky waves fell down her flesh, impressing even her eyes. She immediately knew that the phantom was no more. She had found the dress that would work.
“Yes, I think this may work for you. Ah, Miss you will be thoroughly pleased. With you I will create my greatest work yet!” exclaimed the man with enthusiasm. “Thank you, sir,” she replied with breathless speech. She was devoured with excitement and could not will herself from not smiling. “Now, before we begin, I will ask you to sign your name on this form. It briefly outlines an agreement for my art to be displayed in public by you. My art is a quite serious subject for me. This is no simple store, but both an artist’s workshop and museum,” he explained carefully. He handed her the paper and a pen and she leaned forward, printing and signing her name with the support of the mirror. She handed both back to the man and looked back to her reflection, imaging her golden debut at the dance.
“Ah, ok Miss Rose. You shall return tomorrow, first thing in the morning, and we will create something for you; a new you, if you like!” he instructed warmly. “But for now, I have much to prepare.”
Rose smiled and rubbed the golden fabric once more through her thumbs and fingers and almost promised the cloth her hastened return. Rose bowed her head and thanked the man. Suddenly, as before, she was swept up in the man’s exuberant energy and she found herself back at the cash register. The man began working again with the luminous fabric and she was left with nothing to do but leave.
To be continued...