Dear Frankie...
Letter 12
Dear Frankie,
I'd figured I'd stop this letter nonsense and get myself a job. Not a trailer-park kind of thing but something I liked. Somehow i got the job but I keep writing.
So I got this job in a Bridal Salon, fixing the dresses and sewing them up. It's crazy ironic.
And the brides and the mother's get all teary eyed and I feign interest on their ramblings about how handsome the groom is, and how skinny the bride has gotten. And I cut and I sew and button up their dream gowns for their "special day".
I can't help but feel sorry for them all. The pressure to loose weight, to be pretty enough, to be a good wife, to be able to marry in white.
This is what my parents want from me. So I can understand their silent suffering, the fear stiffening in their spines, the candy coated fake smiles and excitement. And then there's the need, the need to satisfy everyone, to make everyone happy. The need for approval.
Underneath it all, they're all scared shit less. Or maybe I image myself in them, pissing my pants off in complete panic.
Sometimes I get to take pictures, I bring my old camera along and ask them. They all love it. I promise to send the pictures when I get around to develop the film, only I know they would hate the pictures. I like to get that first look of panic when the dress is fully fitted, the mother's tears of joy that look more like pain and regret, the blank stares stares reflected in the mirror. It's like that Sylvia Plath poem, The Applicant.
The light too white, their faces bleached white and waxy.
I don't think most of them know what their signing in for. "A living doll everywhere you look."
Then again the job is not so great, every now and then, a girl comes in pregnant. And their mothers, they're all so cruel: "Be sure to hide that lump with a big bow or something."
So I cry, cry like the other mothers and daughters who are not pregnant. My boss come in and says I'm just really emotional about weddings and excuses me. I sit and cry uncontrollably in the bathroom holding my belly.
I guess this is why I ended writing to you again, to pretend to be less heartbroken. To make sure I don't want to be your living doll, cooking, sewing and covering my belly with a big bow in my wedding day.
A.
I'd figured I'd stop this letter nonsense and get myself a job. Not a trailer-park kind of thing but something I liked. Somehow i got the job but I keep writing.
So I got this job in a Bridal Salon, fixing the dresses and sewing them up. It's crazy ironic.
And the brides and the mother's get all teary eyed and I feign interest on their ramblings about how handsome the groom is, and how skinny the bride has gotten. And I cut and I sew and button up their dream gowns for their "special day".
I can't help but feel sorry for them all. The pressure to loose weight, to be pretty enough, to be a good wife, to be able to marry in white.
This is what my parents want from me. So I can understand their silent suffering, the fear stiffening in their spines, the candy coated fake smiles and excitement. And then there's the need, the need to satisfy everyone, to make everyone happy. The need for approval.
Underneath it all, they're all scared shit less. Or maybe I image myself in them, pissing my pants off in complete panic.
Sometimes I get to take pictures, I bring my old camera along and ask them. They all love it. I promise to send the pictures when I get around to develop the film, only I know they would hate the pictures. I like to get that first look of panic when the dress is fully fitted, the mother's tears of joy that look more like pain and regret, the blank stares stares reflected in the mirror. It's like that Sylvia Plath poem, The Applicant.
The light too white, their faces bleached white and waxy.
I don't think most of them know what their signing in for. "A living doll everywhere you look."
Then again the job is not so great, every now and then, a girl comes in pregnant. And their mothers, they're all so cruel: "Be sure to hide that lump with a big bow or something."
So I cry, cry like the other mothers and daughters who are not pregnant. My boss come in and says I'm just really emotional about weddings and excuses me. I sit and cry uncontrollably in the bathroom holding my belly.
I guess this is why I ended writing to you again, to pretend to be less heartbroken. To make sure I don't want to be your living doll, cooking, sewing and covering my belly with a big bow in my wedding day.
A.