The Item in Question

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her long brown hair was ratty from sleep. She stood, immobilized from exhaustion and pining for ten more minutes. Her pyjama bottoms were frayed and tattered. She got them in college and refused to retire them, claiming they brought her luck. Her lower belly gently protruded from beneath her shirt, round and soft. She poked at it with concern.

           “Why do you taunt me so?” She wondered. “I eat vegetables, I walk the dog, but you remain.” She said aloud. From the corner of her eye, she spotted it. The thing that taunted her more than her squishy midsection ever did. She glared at it wearily.

           “Is today the day?” She asked herself. She shook her head, “No, not today.” She wasn’t ready. She purchased the item in question on a whim. She spotted it near the checkout after she’d already spent a paycheque on items she’d never wear. It was the icing on the cake, the pièce de resistance, her Everest. “One day.” She thought and looked away.

She dressed in haste, throwing on whatever she found lying about. Jackson watched patiently from the doorway, wagging his tail. She stretched an old pair of tights over her rear end. They were covered in dog hair from top to bottom. She stressed and groaned as they barely fit over her thighs. Eventually, she pulled them up around her waist. A light trickle of sweat formed on her top lip. She burned hot from the inside. Flustered from her struggle, she threw on an old band t-shirt and tied back her hair. “As good as it's going to get.” She thought and leashed up Jackson for his walk.

           As she left her house, rain clouds rolled in. The sky turned dark, and the rain came in gently at first, but harder the further she got away from her house. She hadn’t dressed for the rain. Her Nikes squished as she walked, and water ran down her face. She could barely see through her glasses as water droplets formed a wall over her eyes. “This wouldn’t have happened if I had just worn it.” She thought miserably. Jackson didn’t notice the rain. He trotted along like any other day. He lunged at squirrels and trudged through puddles.

Later, curled up on the couch with a bowl of ice cream and Jackson at her feet. She flicked through channels mindlessly. She rotated through her usuals: TLC, The Food Network, and Bravo. Eventually, she settled on a rerun of The Price Is Right. She loved Bob Barker. Looking back, his behavior towards female guests was questionable at times. Not in a to-catch-a-predator kind of way, more like a creepy uncle with boundary issues. She loved watching people win prizes. People’s happiness brought her immense joy. She smiled, seeing an old woman clambering over people to make her way down to the winner’s row. The woman had large 80s hair and more makeup than a drag queen at brunch. She envied her.

 “I bet she wouldn’t have chickened out.” She thought and changed the channel. Her phone buzzed with a text from Emma. “Lunch tomorrow?” The text read. She replied with an enthusiastic. “YES.”

The next morning, she stood in front of her mirror in the same ratty pyjama pants and an old t-shirt. Her hair still a mess, her breath ripe with morning. Her belly was hidden under her shirt, but she squeezed at her muffin top. She turned around to examine her behind in the mirror. “Not bad,” she thought. She twirled around to look at it from another angle. “Huh, I look pretty good,” she said out loud. A glimmer of self-confidence shot through her like a lightning bolt. She brushed out her knotted hair and slicked it back into a low ponytail. The thought of wrestling herself into disgusting old tights did not appeal. For once, she felt good, and old dog-haired leggings made her feel bad.

She waltzed to her closet and pulled out a dress. It was blue with small white flowers. It had a tie around the waist, something Monica would wear in an episode of Friends. She’d never worn it before. “This will do,” she thought and flung off her ratty sleepwear. She examined herself in the mirror. The dress was flattering. It hugged her curves in all the right places. She felt feminine and flowy. She twirled around, showing off her legs and curves.

As she dressed for her lunch with Emma, Jackson barged into the room and jumped onto the chair in the corner. He knocked over the lamp and, in the process, knocked it off the wall. The item in question lay there, staring back at her as she stood up the lamp. She paused and picked it up. “Is today the day?” She asked herself hopefully. She walked back to the mirror, holding it in her hand. It matched her outfit, complimented it even. “Today is the day.” She aloud and placed it on her head.

The item in question was a hat. A wide brimmed, straw hat with a thick blue ribbon and a bow that adorned the front. It had small white tassels that dangled all around the brim. She hadn't been thrilled about them at first, but they grew on her. It was a hat fit for a member of high society attending a polo match. She felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman as she stood staring at herself in the mirror. The blue ribbon matched her dress. The white tassels matched the flowered pattern. As she twirled, the tassels shifted and swung from side to side, obscuring her eyeline. She felt a pang of insecurity.

“Can I pull this off?” She wondered. Self-doubt flooded her brain. The anxiety of potential humiliation swirled all around her. She began to spiral. She lived in sweatpants, tights, and oversized tops. She also wrestled with body image issues. She never felt cool enough to pull off unique pieces but she coveted monthly issues of Vogue. She secretly wished she had the confidence to dress more fashionably.

She was at a crossroads. She could wear the hat and risk potential humiliation if it turns out the hat is not cool. Or she could not wear it and crumble under her own crushing self-worth. She stared at herself in the mirror, unsure of how long she’d been standing there. She glanced down at her phone, it was 11:30 pm. “Shit, I have to go.” She said. She took one more look at herself in the hat and said: “Fuck it, the hat stays.” She grabbed her purse, scratched Jackson behind the ear and headed out into the world, hat and all.

It was a hot day. The sun beat down on her as she made her way to the café to meet Emma. The hat shielded her from the sun’s aggressive beams. Her dress flowed as she walked, providing a cool breeze between her legs. “See, the hat was a good idea,” she thought happily, posturing herself to stand upright.

As she walked, she passed little shops along the way. At first, she admired her reflection and her effortlessly cool stride. She praised herself for being so brave and so very fashionable. She imagined the likes of Kate Middleton and Meghan Markle asking her where she got her hat, should she run into them on the street. Occasionally, she stopped to pretend she was window shopping. She stole glances of herself and smiled. She even gave herself a confident twirl, narrowly avoiding a passerby’s small dog.

She rounded a corner toward the cafe and noticed a man standing outside his shop. Broom in hand, the man nodded politely at patrons and bid them a good day. When she passed, he gave her an extended look, starting at her feet and ending with a prolonged pause at her head. He nodded as she passed but stared endlessly three inches above her eyeline.

“What’s his problem?” She wondered. Slightly shaken from his gaze, she shook it off and continued her confident march towards the café. And then it happened again, or at least she thought. A woman passed in front of her with a bouquet of flowers. She was elegantly dressed in black. She wore horned-rimmed glasses and carried a black Louis Vuitton bag. She was a vision of exquisite taste and stylish opulence. The woman paused and looked her way before climbing into her Mercedes Benz.

“Did she give me a dirty look?” She wondered. “I should have never worn this hat.” Her newfound confidence shook under the perceived judgement of the dignified woman in black. Her shoulders rounded forward, and she tilted her tasselled head down. She felt herself caving to self-doubt, her spirit crumbling. She quickened her pace, now completely aware of her bare legs and the hat that sat upon her increasingly sweaty head. Beads of sweat formed and ran down her back. Her underarms were moist with perspiration.

A block from the café, she looked down and noticed her shoe untied. She crouched down to address the laces. As she lifted her gaze, she was met with the finger of a toddler pointing directly at her face. The small child said, "Hat, hat," while wavering its sticky finger in the direction of her tasselled accessory. The mother swiftly grabbed the child and whisked them away without a word. She was mortified.

“Even an infant can see how stupid you look,” her anxiety screamed. She picked up the pace as she closed in on the café. She saw Emma sitting on the patio wearing black tights and an old t-shirt. She groaned audibly with embarrassment as she reached the hostess's desk.

“Can I help you?” The hostess asked, taken aback by her declaration of displeasure. Before she could say she was there to meet a friend, she stood mindlessly in front of the hostess stand. She could see the hostess stealing glances at her now sweat-drenched straw hat. “Mam? Are you here for lunch?” She asked. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak. She was paralyzed with anxiety and embarrassment. What would Emma say about her hat? Why didn’t she just wear tights? Sweat continued to pour down her back, streaking her self-tanner down her legs.

“I don’t think Emma saw me. Maybe I can leave and text her that I’m sick.” This thought raced through her mind as she searched for a way out of the situation. But before she could turn to leave, she heard. “Hey! Over here, I got us a table.” She forced a smile and informed the hostess she was all set.

As she made her way to the table, all she could see was Emma’s casually comfortable body waving to her from her seat. “I can't do this,” she thought. She was sure that if she removed her hat, her hair would be slick with sweat. If she sat down, a mixture of self-tanner and sweat would stain any surface she touched.

“Why did I buy this fucking hat?” She thought angrily. She clearly remembered the day she was checking out at TJ Maxx. She approached the cash register with arms full of garments she knew she’d never wear. She went to the Maxx that day with an identity reset in mind. She bought dresses, a mini skirt, a pair of high-heeled boots and a hat. The hat in question called her to like a beacon of exquisite taste. She thought the hat would change her. It would give her the confidence she needed. She could break out of her mundane cycle of dog-haired tights and old t-shirts. Instead, the hat brought shame, streaky self-tanner and more sweat than humanly possible.

As she approached the table, she hugged Emma lightly to not rub off on her. She sat down and picked up her menu. Emma eyed her suspiciously, smiled and said: “So, are we going to talk about it?”

She lowered her menu and turned her head to the side. “I wish I could go back in time and never buy this fucking hat.”