“Do you want to sit on the patio for a bit before we head back?”, he asks. We just checked into the hotel and are finishing up lunch. I’d really like to relax in the sunshine and I know it’s going to be a long day. I quickly do the math in my head. The wedding is in 2 hours. That means I have an hour and a half before we have to leave for the church. I need to shower, shave my legs, deep condition, wash, cleanse, exfoliate, blow-dry, and curl. Then I have to moisturize, apply primer, foundation, concealer, brow pencil, brow powder, eye primer, highlighter, contour, blush, bronzer, setting powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, lash primer, mascara, lip liner, lipstick, gloss, and setting spray. I also haven’t decided what to wear and would like a fresh coat of paint on my nails. “I’d better head back. I’ll see you in a little while”, I reply and as I walk away, I can’t help but feel a little left out.
When he finally comes back to the room, I am in the final stages of getting ready, trying on multiple dress-shoe-bag combinations. “Which do you like better? I ask, holding up both pairs of shoes that would go with the dress I finally chose, trying to hurry the process along. “I don’t care”, he says and I wonder if that’s really true.
Meanwhile, he jumps in the shower and out again, dressing in the same suit he’s worn to the past 5 events (or more) and he’s ready to go in 15 minutes. “You’re not ready yet?” he asks. The same question he always asks, I think, rolling my eyes. “Just about! I will be sooner if you help me decide”, I plead with him. “The shiny black ones,” he says, and I secretly cringe. I know those will look the best, but they’re also new and I haven’t worn them in yet. No better time than now, I suppose. I pack my clutch with what I need to re-apply throughout the night and I’m ready for the wedding. It shouldn’t really matter, I think to myself, it’s not my wedding.
It’s only been about an hour and already I can feel the faux leather of my new shoes digging in. As the night goes on, I perch myself in between a few friends and enviously watch the dance floor, cursing myself and my shoes. This really will be a long night if all I can manage to do is sit here. A friend comes over to see if we want to dance and when we all decline he asks me why. “My feet are killing me, I wish I hadn’t worn these shoes”, I explain. “No one’s looking at your feet”, he says with a smirk and heads back out to the crowd.
When the band is finished playing and everyone is heading home, we start the walk back to the hotel. Before we get 10 steps out the door, I stop. I’ve been waiting all night for this. I unbuckle and kick off my black, strappy heels to reveal swollen and blistered feet. The feeling of relief is overwhelming and the cold pavement feels like heaven as I limp back to our room.
Great read, Katie! I believe the normative narrative throughout your story can be summed up into one sentence that females often hear: “pain is beauty”. Furthermore, to be a female means to be beautiful. Adding the detail about your partner wearing the same outfit for the 15th time was a very sneaky normative narrative. Well done. It assumes that women need a new outfit for every occasion, while men are held accountable for only needing one nice outfit. The last important normative narrative I found in your blog post was missing out on fun activities because prepping to look nice takes priority. This one is the most relevant for me. I often find myself weighing the options “if I shower and blow dry my hair tonight I can do breakfast in the morning”. You did a spectacular job writing about to be female means to ‘look your best’.