Coulda, woulda, shoulda
On my dresser stands a new bottle of perfume. I can tell it’s real and expensive. The bottle itself is a sight to behold. Made of colored green glass, it’s shaped like a plumper version of an hourglass, bringing to mind phrases like “fullness of body” and “intensity of allure.” I make up these phrases on my own. I know I shouldn’t be taking perfume so seriously, but I’ve never had grown-up perfume. This did not even come to rest on my shelf because I bought it, although I coulda. It doesn’t come from my husband, although it shoulda. It comes from my mother-in-law, instead. I shoulda opened it… but I am intimidated. I’m scared of perfume.
It’s a funny thing, this fear. It is certainly not only about a fear of perfume per se. Anyone coulda told me that from a mile away! Perhaps the fear of using a bottle of perfume is akin to the experience of people refusing to take the plastic cover off of furniture, although they really shoulda. Maybe it’s just like when we were kids and we were given new toys that were so special, we weren’t allowed to take them out of their boxes (remember the first balikbayan box you ever opened and out came your first walking doll that was instantly snatched by your mother and forever kept in a cabinet?). There’s fear there, too: a fear of getting things dirty, or a fear of losing things, especially to the power of dust and grime which can make shiny new things suddenly old, or even a fear of forgetting. In plastic, things stay pristine, protected and pure. It’s silly, really — believing that anything can be protected from time.
Speaking of time, I just turned a year older, thus the perfume on my dresser. I should tell you that, internally, time stopped for me somewhere at 30. I look at myself in the mirror and see no obvious change from my 20s although my very first confirmed line has appeared on my eyebrow. I say hello to it every day. I am of the firm belief that I must make friends with all my lines. I have earned them from all the squinting I’ve had to do reading and writing. I am still young enough to delude myself into thinking that these lines give me character. I say this with candor and honesty but I say also, with much more honesty, that I have found myself perusing anti-aging products far more intensely than I have before. I do this secretly, of course.
Even more interesting than keeping this secret is this bigger secret: a few months ago, I brought a green dress that reminded me of the perfume that sits on my dresser. The dress was not cheap. It was not something I would ever, ever wear. It was something that remained unclassified in the activities of my everyday life. It could not be worn to teach. It could not be worn to study. It could not be worn to my children’s PTA meeting. It could not be worn to the grocery. It could not be worn to a meeting with head honchos. It could be worn, however, to Embassy. Sigh. Perhaps I, too, wanted to be like my perfume — full, intense, and a sight to behold!
The dress is short. The last time I wore one like this, I must have been 12! The bodice scoops to way below and I actually have cleavage! Horror of horrors! Miracle of miracles! Wonder of wonders! No Wonder Bra here. It is just my good old reliable bosom cooperating with a well-made dress to make the most of my, um, assets. I knew as I paid for the dress (with cash so that there was no paper trail for my guilt) that it would remain in my closet. It woulda certainly matched my perfume. Together they coulda hung out with each and kept each other company. The dress has no chance of ever being worn because it knows that its owner has no problems relegating this dress to the big world of her “coulda, woulda, shouldas.” I could wear this dress in public, but I don’t. I would wear this dress in public, but I don’t. I should wear this dress in public, but I don’t.
Truth be told, my closet has begun to get filled with outfits I like to buy (once again with nary a paper trail) but never quite wear. They sit there with such promise. Once in a while, I take out the pieces (there is a green polka-dotted blouse that flares right at the hip; there’s a sleeveless black blouse with a Harlequin neckline, there’s even a Grecian black gown that is fastened only on one shoulder, leaving the other shoulder bare) and try them on, striking a pose before the mirror. But this is more for my benefit and my own happiness. For now, this might be enough.
A question needs to be asked here: What am I hiding? I have always been brave and I’d like to think braver than some people; and yet in the domain of vanity — true vanity, unadulterated, no apologies vanity — I still suffer from the belief that to want to be beautiful is a pursuit that should diminish as I grow older. In fact, I was told that beauty is an ugly pursuit. I was taught that to grow old means to enjoy the freedom of no longer caring about how one looks. I have been told that it means that I will begin to be relieved to no longer want my clothes to match or be pleasing to my eye, much less anyone else’s!
I have been taught that the older I get, the more I must work on the things “that truly matter,” such as my soul and my spirit. In the simplest of terms, I have been taught that vanity is bad. Raised and steeped in the mentality that my soul is all that matters, I have worked on my soul most of my life and have hardly worked on my body. I always thought I shoulda, but was always told I shouldn’t.
But these days I am suddenly interested in myself completely — both body and soul. Maybe that’s the freedom that comes with this particular age. I have the time and the luxury to pursue these thoughts about myself. It is selfish. It is indulgent. But it’s also damned interesting. Yesterday I went out shopping with a much older friend. Her aesthetic was to always get the cheapest, the most practical, the simplest items, whether a blouse or a towel. I was like this once, too. I remember thinking to myself, surprised that I could glimpse how I had changed: When I did want more than what was practical? I looked at her and realized that she did not know how to please herself in any way. And this could either be because she did not know herself, or because she did not feel she deserved to be pleased. And either possibility was truly sad.
It’s never too late to learn the lesson of finding balance — of seeing vanity for what it’s worth, as an acceptance of one’s worth. Life is not about “either/ors,” with one side being better than the other.
Maybe at the end of the day it’s all about trying one forbidden thing at a time and plunging into it with all my heart, suspending judgment on “what it all means.” Maybe it means nothing except a chance to stretch oneself, or the chance to test old ways of being. I spray the perfume on my wrists liberally and enjoy the way it changes me, both inside and outside. For surely the body and the soul can be the best of friends. Or at least, they shoulda been.
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Recently two books I was involved in editing came out in the market so please check them out: “My Mom is a Stewardess” by Angelica Viloria and published by Claretian Publications is a compilation of essays on motherhood, faith and vocation. “Laughing Christ,” on the other hand, is the final compilation of the essays of Fr. Joseph Galdon from his column “The Mustard Seed.” Its publisher is Jesuit Communications. I edited both and did the intro for the latter book. These are wonderful new books to add to your collection.
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You may reach me at Rica.Santos@gmail.com.
