Torrid

"Torrid?", I say to him. His eyes question mine. I shrug. I look back. I repeat it. "Hmmm- Torrid....", I almost whisper.

I am absolutely enchanted. The shimmering burgundy. The deep purple. It reminds me of blood. It reminds me of red velvet. I turn it in my hands. I never go this dark. But I am absolutely enchanted by the chocolately texture inside this bottle. He stares at me, and sighs. He looks at the bottle not seeing the significance in it. He can not understand how I can be so enraptured by something so miniscule. I toss it in. I get it.

At home, I stuggle with the color. It is too dark. It is too unlike me. I am a red girl. With the occasional hot pink. But I have always been a red girl. Just like any sex siren. I love red lips and red nails. They make me feel powerful, sexy, uninhibited, and very much the vixen. I pull it off, too. I have so many different reds. Every girl should find the red for her! So, I look at my purplish, almost black nails. They look infected almost. I shake the bottle, I wiggle my toes. I am waiting for the color to dry. To not look so sinister. But it remains. I debate removing it completely and starting over with a summery color. I sit there. Sigh deeply. I mutter the name.

Torrid.


tor·rid (tôrd, tr-)
adj. tor·rid·er, tor·rid·est
1. Parched with the heat of the sun; intensely hot.
2. Scorching; burning: the torrid noonday sun.
3. Passionate; ardent: a torrid love scene.
4. Hurried; rapid: set a torrid pace; torrid economic growth.

Well, that gives it a little more purpose. It is a dark color. Almost gothic. Edgy without being too blasse. I am growing to like it. It is like red. It makes me feel sexy. But in a dark, serious way. As though I were afflicted by some great unknowable pain deep in the very existense of me. I feel more sassy. More alive. I feel like I am actually finally starting my life. Like I removed every awful thing from my life with the nail polish remover, and started off new with my shiny Torrid nails.

The move, my birthday, getting ready to leave Gabe with my XH, and leaving the military. It's all wrapped up in that color.

Torrid.

I am torrid. I feel torrid. No wonder I gravitated towards that color. I am rushed, I am passionate. I finally understand. I am growing up. I am abandoning my childish misconceptions of only being able to wearing red in order to feel grown up. I am entering a stage where nuetral rules most of the time, where bold colors remain in the bedroom, and where conservativeness is not naivete. I am going to live in a house once again. I am still a mother. I am going to be in my mid-20s. I am not a kid. I am actually an adult! I am not going to be so torrid in this relationship as I have. I will not be torrid like the sun beating down on me. And I will be more torrid in my relationships with people around me.

DAMN, who knew that buying nail polish could be so eye opening?

Scars

They are tangled and gnarled. They are hard and violent.

But they are mine.

They each tell a tale of pain, of crashing. Stories of gravel, of bicycles, of fights. Sharp corners, being dropped. Falling.

Each one. Like the burns on my arm. Forever to remind me of days long gone. Of how much I have changed since then. How those scars remain there. They grow along with me. They shrink upon themselves. Growing tight. Binding themselves onto me. Permanently.

So many. Each a different place, a different tear. A different pain. It makes me flawed. Makes me special. I am extraordinary!

My skinned knees. My cut elbows. My burned arm. They all make me who I am. I have torn myself open. I have met the ground with a sudden crash. I have jumped off fences, only to find myself in my own blood.

Each and every one. I can't remember each one separately. Or remember tears cried. But I can see them there still. Remarkable. Beautiful in a twisted way. From cat scratches, to burns, to cuts from sharp fences, to warts burned off . They are bearely visible now, but a long time ago, they were clear, and angry. Red with hatred.

I have scars on my heart. Everyone does. Misdoings, missed people, misconcemptions of people all hurt us. I have been wounded. Just as much as most other people. I wear my scarred heart on my sleeve. I don't want to be overly cynical. I refused to be so damaged. I don't want to be bittered, without being sweetened first. I want to live, and understand everything. Why? So, I can have a life much like a quilt. Different patterns sewn together. Every incident, every tear. Every smile, laugh, and dream. Unrealized or not. I want to be the essence of that. Different pieces to produce a bigger thing. I want to be that!

Stretch marks. Dark lines. Varicose veins. All given for the opportunity of a lifetime. I am a mother. I want to be there to kiss every boo boo away. I want to be there to wipe away every tear. I want to be there to hold onto him until he knows that each scar he gets is a prize. A prize of individuality. Of choices. Of memories.

I will be that bigger thing. One scar at a time. He will also be a quilt. Like you.

Like me.