Sunday, January 08, 2006

Amy Arenson

The conditioner must remain in for at least five minutes, so you scrub your lean arms
using a pink loofa poof doused in lavender moisturizing cleanser. The smell is relaxing,
you think. You think that you could spend an hour on that one arm. You remember that if
you spent an hour on that arm you would be in deep shit at work.
A pain grips your stomach. After six months on the Atkins diet your breasts have
shriveled down to a respectable A cup. In the industry all the cleavage is created using
bras and duct tape. Since you have tried the bra and taping method at home you know that
your newly reduced breasts can have a deep cleavage look without actually being pockets
of obesity on an otherwise acceptable figure. The pain subsides.
Thinking of your breasts reminds you to wash them. You quickly wash the remainder of
your body, rinse your now congealed hair, and wash your face with the dermatologist
recommended gentle cleanser. You move your fingers in tight circles, beginning at your
hairline, moving down your nose, and ending up at the crease in your chin where you tend
to collect pin size blackheads. You remember that anything under twenty seconds of
scrubbing is not enough, while anything over one minute is too much. You estimate that
you have now spent a reasonable forty-five seconds scouring your face. You turn off the
You step from the shower and a draft whips by you. You know how ridiculous you look,
teeth chattering, hair slicked back in one gelatinous mass; you know because you are
studying yourself from head to toe in the mirror that dominates the bathroom. You dry off
and bend in half, flipping your sopping hair. Using your towel, you twist your hair into
a turban. You strut back and forth two steps each way to see if you have any cellulite.
You see two dimples and vow not to eat for the three days. That reminds you, you are out
of cigarettes. You will have to stop on your way to the shoot.
As you walk into the bedroom, practicing your best catwalk saunter, you see the clock.
It is now ten thirty. You are officially forty minutes late. You think about calling, but
that would just make you seem weak. You must find an outfit. You fling hangers with jeans
on them from left to right, trying to make a decision about which ones to wear. After two
minutes you narrow it down to two pairs. It is between the dark, bootcut ones, or the
light, straight legged ones. You flip them back and forth a few more times, trying to
remember what your ass looks like in each pair.


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