It seems like sitting at the front of the bus is an invitation for people to sit by you. It makes sense, people don’t want to walk very far. Last week I had a man, who I don’t believe spoke English, dresses as a cowboy of sorts, asked me to move over so he could sit next to me, despite the bus being nearly empty. Of course, I did.
I’m simply sitting here at the front because I’m unsure of when my stop will come. I’ve looked at the maps, but I can’t find it there. They don’t do a good job if giving much warning about which stops are next, and some buses are inaudible. It would be nice if the had a larger map, posted somewhere, like the trains I’ve taken in other cities. Although, I think if you don’t request a stop, then it doesn’t, rendering counting the stops til yours useless.
Sitting in the front, I just realized I can see myself in the rear view mirror. It’s distracting. The sort of thing that you can’t unsee. I may wind up looking at myself most of this leg. Not for vanity. Quite the opposite. Concern that I look chubby or older than I did yesterday, or just plain…
Getting up early, I don’t put much effort into my appearance. I brush my hair, maybe pull back my bangs. My bangs are fierce when I straighten my hair, hot enough to get me into VIP club areas and asked if I’m in school, even though college ended five years ago, and I had spent far to long in it. Makes me feel good when I dress up, wear eyeliner, do my hair and can convince people I’m young and pretty. But I don’t have that kind of energy in the AM.
If I can remember to put on mascara I’m making an effort. Some days, if I e slept on set hair and its wavy, I’ll think, that looks cute, and skip brushing for the beach blown look.
Despite freckles, dark circles, and my worry of signs of aging, I’ve never been one to wear foundation or concealer. Perhaps that is part of the reason that my skin has held up so well.
I used to play around with eyeshadow. Sparkles and colors that popped. It has its place, like going to a club, but I’m likely done with those days. Now, when I go out, I opt for only eyeliner and mascara. Perhaps I’m a slave to trends, it does seem like the way everyone wears their make-up these days.
As far as my clothes go, well, I need new ones. I embarked on a weightless journey about eight months ago. It’s slow, but steady. I’m down about twenty pounds. Down at least thirty since I last had to wear office clothes. My clothes are baggy. Pants come off without unbuttoning. They hide my ever improving shape. But I’d rather have my clothes getting to big than too small.
This wasn’t what I had set out to write about this morning, but that distracting mirror hijacked my thoughts.