Compost Studios

(This post was inspired by  Neil and his musings on writing from a female point of view.)

She had a moment of epiphany when her girlfriend was telling her about a recent trip to the mall to buy summer clothes.

“I found this cute dress. I thought it looked really good on me, but I knew Jon would hate the print. I didn’t buy it, because every time I wear it, I don’t want to be thinking about how Jon doesn’t see how hot I am in it—he just sees the colors.”

Her girlfriend, married for well over a decade, cares whether her clothes turn her husband on! This is astounding to her, as is the next revelation: her girlfriend also refreshes her makeup just before her husband gets home from work each day.

She was curious: Did her girlfriend’s husband notice? Did he care?

In a flash realizes she has no idea what type of clothing, makeup, or hair style her husband prefers, what turns him on, what his ideal wife looks like.

They’d been together since she was a teenager, why was she so clueless?

Did he like tight jeans and heels? Hippie chick layers? Short skirts? Sweet and romantic dresses? Snug fitting scoop-neck shirts? The outdoorsy look? Sheer blouses? Polished professional separates? Traditional suburban preppie wear?

She’d worn her hair a half dozen different ways over the years—from long waves that trailed down to her waist to a short cut that buzzed off the nape of her neck.

How did he like it?

How did he like her?

He never said.

She never asked.

What were the larger implications of this “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy?

One time when she was about 25, he left on a two week business trip in the spring. While he was gone, she highlighted her hair with blonde streaks and worked on a tan, eager to transform herself  into someone worth missing, someone worth coming home to.

When she was younger, she used to model new clothes for him, happy to show him her latest look. Did he care? She remembers the lingerie she bought, the miniskirts, the attention to self improvement--everything that dissipated after the children arrived.

How long had it been since she started a diet or fitness program or bought an outfit, fragrance, or beauty product with the idea it would not only please her but make a difference to him? Was their mutual lack of interest a sign their marriage had advanced to a new level or that it was dying?

She can’t remember the last time he told her she was beautiful or sexy, the last time his face lit up at the sight of her, or anything even remotely approaching a public display of affection or a private display of deep tenderness. She tells herself that these things don’t matter, but if she’s honest with herself, she knows sometimes they matter a lot. They were, after all, a big part of the reason she married him.

True, when it comes to beauty and fashion now, her aim is to please herself and not him. The law of diminishing returns has become reality in middle age. There's only so much to be done with the face and body the years have delivered--why struggle? She wants to believe her attitude reflects maturity and confidence, but in her low moments she thinks it’s a sign of defeat, evidence she has surrendered to the idea that nothing she can do will ever make her desirable again—not to him, not to a stranger on the street, not to the cute guy at the grocery store who asks her where the Oreos are.

She’s sliding toward 50. She's almost invisible now. No one notices her. That phase of life is over for her. The conscious and subconscious focus on the strength of her powers of attraction no longer commands her attention or energy. 

She should be relieved to be free from it, but instead what she feels is resignation bordering on defeat. She carries a sense she has lost something she can never regain, and what feels inconsequential in one moment feels huge in the next. She considers whether she’s mourning a fantasy--the loss of a state and power she never had in the first place. She was never known as a beauty.

She always consoled herself with the statement that she’d rather be smart than beautiful, but she’s not sure being smart has worked to her advantage in any relationship. When it comes to love, a sharp mind can cut both ways.

She’d observed that smart girls make lively conversation at parties, but few men want to deal with being intellectually challenged at home. Smart women make bad partners—they think, talk, and care too much. They fight domesticity, question the status quo, and are never content—at least these are the messages she’s gotten over the years.

As her girlfriend prattles on about her shopping trip, she wonders what her husband thinks about the beauty myth, the impact it has on menopausal women, how it affects intimacy and marriage, how it has (or has not) affected them, affected her.

But she knows she’s not going to ask him about it.

And she knows she’s not going to tell him what she thinks.

She is a smart woman after all.

She doesn’t need his silence and tight-jaw to tell her that, yes, she thinks too much, and no, the dressing room mirror doesn’t lie.