A fall from grace

I sit at my desk, dip my finger into the small plastic container, look into a round purple mirror and slowly dab the white cream under my eyes with my ring finger. The final step of my nighttime routine.

After showering, I let my hair dry in a towel: pink, hastily chosen from a variety of different towels in the hall closet of my childhood home. I wait half an hour, during which I wash my face in the dorm bathroom. Poorly ventilated, the mirrors fog quickly after you shower. I wipe them down, then wash my hands before reaching for the bar of soap I use on my face. I don’t keep my towel in the bathroom. After rinsing, I walk to my room down the hall, hands and face soaking wet, and hurry to where it hangs in my closet.

I sit at my desk, reach for my lotion. One pump, massage it into my face, focusing on my T-zone. Two weeks ago, I walked into the Aveda store. Swept into a chair for a free consultation, I was told by the saleswoman that despite having a clear complexion, I had big pores. Ten minutes later, I walked out with a brown bag. New face lotion. Some hair products. A receipt, $96.

I lean into the mirror closely. They look smaller now—I’m sure of it.

I reach for my blowdryer. Green. Three years ago, I read an article in Vogue about a blowdryer, handmade in France. Used by celebrity hairstylists—a “fashion world favorite.” Expensive, but trust me, they wrote, for the salon-quality blowouts it creates at home, it’s worth it.

Blow drying my hair only takes 20 minutes. Only another 10 after that, when I straighten the parts I couldn’t quite get with the dryer. The curls desperately try to form amidst the heat and the pressure. I clamp on them one by one—perfect now.

Two years ago, my dog died.

After her diagnosis, her body decayed rapidly. In a matter of two weeks, she went from being a lively, healthy six-year old mutt to a skeleton, barely able to stand or eat. Unable to sleep, her eyes bulged, hazy and dull. In discomfort, she panted constantly. Her spine and shoulder blades protruded, nothing but skin to protect them. Her muscles had wasted away: cachexia, a common symptom of leukemia. She died on a Saturday, two days before Christmas.

I had stopped eating much by then. It’s hard not to see it from the pictures now—the dark bags under my eyes. Patches of thinning hair by my temples. Shadows in every nook of my body. Pale, constantly shivering.

She had spent her last days in my bed, watching me fall. At the same time that cancer was causing her body to rapidly shut down, I was deliberately torturing my own. I stayed in bed with her: me watching her, she watching me. Two bodies, hollow. Grasping.

I lied—there’s one more step to my routine.

After slowly applying my eye cream, I walk to the bathroom. The lights are bright. White. I can see everything.

I take off my clothes. Two small mirrors lie on each side of the room. I turn to each side, scanning, probing. I reassure myself: I’m fine today. I can go to sleep now. I didn’t eat too much today. Or maybe I did, and that’s why I’m bloated. I look skinny. I look fat. I don’t need to worry—I’ll skip breakfast tomorrow. I’m worried. I’m wasting so much time. Only a few more minutes. It’s been ten minutes. Am I seeing things? Is this what I look like? This is what I look like. This can’t be what I look like. I lost weight. I gained weight. Should I walk to the gym across the street and weigh myself? No, it’s too late for that. It’s early, I have time. I’m better, I don’t need to. I might be fatter, I need to check. I have work to do. I can’t focus on this. This is all I can think about. It’s been two years. I did so much work on yourself. It didn’t work. I am better. How am I not better? I’m not the same. My thoughts are the same. I don’t have to talk about it. This isn’t an issue anymore. Is this still an issue? I’m too old for this. I promise, I’m better. I’m fine. I promise.

I’m fine.

I put my clothes back on. I walk to my room. My roommate is there, so I glance in the mirror on our door, which is blue. I walk to my bed, tired. I turn out the light.

I still miss her. When I’m home, it still feels like she’s there. After the day she died, I stopped crying. I felt guilty, like I must not miss her enough.

She’s just a dog, I don’t deserve to be too sad.

It’s just an eating thing. It’ll pass.