Chapter Five

Miranda decides to give herself a makeover in the hopes that she will be able to attract a companion.

A chilly, raining morning of a Sunday, a cup of coffee on my left and some sappy love story bleeding out of the television.

My eyes, red and swollen from all the tears I was too weak to hold inside.

Watching a love story film is a stupid idea when you are already a person who is lonely, perfectly aware that you will probably remain alone for the rest of your sorry life.

But the sad, desperate chunk of your heart that wants to live vicariously through fictitious characters, rather than just trying to dump the idea of love off some mental cliff…

That chunk can be the strongest chunk of your entire being, and before you know it, you’re tied to a metaphorical chair, unable to move, being forced to sit and watch something that will only result in making you feel emptier than ever.

This is my Sunday morning.

The film is an instrument for extracting the liquid from my eyes.

If something sad happens, I cry.

If something happy happens, I cry.

If something funny happens, I cry.

Any time someone laughs, smiles, or frowns, I cry, and then I take a sip of the cold coffee.

The more caffeine I take in, the more I cry, and when the uplifting credits song starts up over the inevitable happy ending, I notice that the skin on my face is all rubbed off from wiping it so much.

Pressing the round, red button in the top corner of the remote, I switch off the television and bring my knees to my chest, staring tearfully out the window at the rainy streets below.

Is it really that impossible that anyone might want to love me, I wonder.

The memory of the red rose in the garbage can replays inside my mind, and I make excuses.

It could be it wasn’t his rose. It’s possible he didn’t show up or call me because he died in a car crash on the way to the restaurant, or maybe he never existed at all.

It’s entirely possible that the whole scenario was created by my brain�"an elaborate dream, or a regular hallucination.

I said that I was done trying with love, and I said I was putting my foot down… But how can I ever expect to find love if I reject the idea of it so easily?

This is what I always do.

I flip-flop and never stick to anything. It’s pathetic, I know, especially for someone of my profession. A mentally unstable person trying to help other mentally unstable people.

What makes the whole thing so damn sad, though, is that no one doesn’t have a mental disorder. Everyone does. Not having a mental disorder is a mental disorder.

Our personality quirks aren’t just things that make us unique, or cute. Instead, they’re signs�"symptoms of an underlying personality disorder.

No one alphabetizes their music library because they want to find things more easily. It’s really because they’re obsessive-compulsive.

You can’t talk to yourself without being schizophrenic.

You can’t be energetic without having attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

You can’t have a bad day without being depressed.

You skip a meal, you’re anorexic. You stay up late to get more work done, and you’re an insomniac.

Yes.

We’re all being fed and driven and treated by people who are mentally unstable.

I am a broken person treating broken people.

I get up to go to the bathroom and take a look in the mirror. Yeah. No one’s gonna wanna go out on a date with this. I need to do something about myself and take a new picture. Then, and only then, might I have a chance at finding someone.

Digging through the bathroom drawer, I pull out a straightening iron. A small pouch of unused makeup. A pair of scissors.

If I’m going to do this, I’m going all the way.

I begin by plugging the flat iron into the wall and switching it on. While I wait for it to heat up, I open the makeup for the first time ever.

Start with the base. The gesso to my canvas.

And paint, paint, paint.

Next, comes the powder. Pat, pat, pat.

The iron is beginning to steam slightly.

I open a tube of fresh, untouched lipstick- bright red the way a fire engine would be, and smear it across my lips, being careful to color inside the lines until I achieve complete perfection.

Today, I am my own masterpiece.

A tube of eyeliner and two different eye shadow colors later, I’m taking the iron to the first lock of my obscenely curly hair, straightening it out into what I realize, for the first time, is actually a very long strip of hair.

I do this again on the same lock for good measure, and then repeat this process with every inch of my hair until I’m left with long, flowing hair, down to my a*s. With hair as curly as mine is, it’s hard to tell how long it really is until you straighten it out like this.

I shrug and grab the scissors off the counter, taking one last glance in the mirror before giving myself a nice above-the-shoulders hair cut.

When all is done and I look in the mirror again, I’m not looking at the same person.

I have to blink, and blink again before I can really take in the fact that I’m staring at myself.

I have never really worn makeup, and my hair has always been long and obnoxiously curly. I’ve never really considered myself attractive in any way.

But now… Looking into the mirror, I see not just a woman, but a lady. A beautiful lady who could turn heads.

It’s a bit of effort before I can break myself away from the mirror and go grab a camera.

I turn off the light and step back out the bathroom door and down the hall to my room, where I grab my digital point-and-shoot camera off my dresser.

I switch it on and hold it out in front of me, smiling as I click the button.

Even as I look at the pictures, I continue to have trouble recognizing the person in the photos as myself. I look at least five years younger and more attractive than I have ever been in my life.

I am the Little Mermaid, with her new set of legs.

I am Cinderella with her sparkling glass slippers.

With any luck, I’ll soon be dancing the night away with my very own Prince Charming, and I will get my happy ending at last.

Before I know it, I’ve snapped about 50 shots of myself, and my camera is bitching that the card is full, so I take the card out and bring it to my laptop where I pop it inside.

I sit cross-legged on the edge of my loveseat, waiting for the folder of pictures to pop up on my computer screen so I can see myself close up.

On a much bigger screen, I am able to see all the slight imperfections of each photo, and I end up flipping through all fifty-some pictures without finding one that is perfect.

So what I end up doing is, I find the one with the fewest imperfections and take it into my favourite photo-editing program to touch it up a bit.

It only takes a few minutes, and when I’m done, I have my completed masterpiece. If this doesn’t get me a real date, then there is no hope for me.

I decide that this time, I won’t bother going through all the bullshit dating sites, either. This time, I’ll do something that will reach a lot more people.

I type Craig’s List into my browser and the page loads.

My heart is racing from excitement.

Clicking the link for the personal’s section, I specify that I am a single Hispanic female, age 26, searching for a male between the ages of 25 and 30.

Next comes the description, so I crack my knuckles and suck in a huge breath.

My name is Miranda Vasquez, I begin, searching my mind for any good qualities I can put down to interest people.

I am 26 years old and I work as a therapist.

My fingers drum gently on the keyboard as I think.

I’m about 5 foot 3 inches tall, and I like that, because it makes me feel small and fragile next to a tall, handsome man.

Does that sound stupid? I chew the dead skin off the inside of my mouth, thinking it over until I decide that the right man would find that cute, instead of lame, and so I keep typing.

I’m not picky about looks, but I am a little picky about personality. I like a man who is smart and has a sense of humor-- the two, I feel, go hand-in-hand.

I like to think that I am both smart and funny, but that is entirely a matter of opinion and you’ll have to just meet me to find out for yourself.

I keep chewing my lip. There has to be more to say about myself.

I smoke.

The perfect guy won’t care if I smoke, right?

I have the occasional drink.

Who doesn’t?

I like to watch dark, mentally intense films, as well as documentaries on occasion, and I enjoy psychological literature.

I don’t like to spend too much time inside my house, and when I can, I like to hang around the park, or by the lake.

I take a look around the room, searching for anything that might remind me of something more to mention. Not seeing anything, I decide to just close and add my nice new photo.

If you find me interesting at all, don’t hesitate to email. Even if we don’t go out, I’m always happy to make new friends.

I look over my ad several times before I’m completely satisfied, and then I tack my picture onto it and ship it out.

My heart rate increases as I do this, realizing that I’ve probably just done something incredibly lame that only a truly desperate loser would do.

All the same, I shrug my shoulders and set the computer aside as I stand and head back to the bathroom where I see myself in the mirror once again and sigh.

It would be a waste not to take my new head out in public and actually take a chance on meeting someone the normal way.

My heart still racing, I leave the bathroom and grab my things from my bedroom.

Purse.

Socks.

Keys.

Cell phone.

Taking one last glace around to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, I leave down the hall and out the front door.