Armor

I sit in the toilet stall, my beaded gown flowing over my high-heeled feet, and I try to breathe. I lean over and put my head in my hands.

Why did I have to say that? I think about the comment I made to someone I haven’t seen in a while, in a year, to be exact. What an idiot I am.

I’m not crying, not going to, but I am unimaginably uncomfortable, stuck in my own skin as if I were covered head to toe in plastic wrap.

I’ve had three drinks. We will need to hire a car to get us home.

I take a deep breath and blow it out, then stand up to hike my Spanx back up over my torso.

It’s the same every year. Brian is somewhat important at these events. Enough so that I feel a stifling tightness in my chest from the pressure I put on myself to live up to expectations at these parties, expectations I assume people have about me, about his wife. 

I know it’s not true. The people we see at these huge parties don’t care. Maybe I even look like a fool for being so dressed up in my six-inch heels and extravagant skirt. But the dress may as well be made out of chainmail; it’s my armor for the night.

I finally leave the stall and pull out the lip gloss I’ve been making him carry for me. I don’t look too bad. I wipe the mascara from under my eyes where it has smudged from my blinking. I wash my hands and look around for my drink. But no; some well-intentioned person has been through to clear out the cups left on sink counters where women have forgotten them.

I turn to go.

He probably thinks I’m off somewhere talking to someone I’ve bumped into. That’s fine. Let him think that. I emerge from the bathroom and stare around, searching for him.

But he’s not there. He hasn’t abandoned me; that isn’t it at all. But I find myself alone, nonetheless. I make a beeline for the bar.

May as well.