Who Is It For?

I wrap my hair into an intricate updo
And cement it in place with hairspray and
More bobby pins than I can count.
I spritz perfume on my neck
And highlight my cheekbones with rouge

Maybe it’s the feminist kick I’ve been on lately,
But as I apply mascara
I can’t help but wonder:
Who I’m putting myself through this for?

Since my idea of a good time
Is reading,
Curled up on my couch
In sweats
With a mug of green tea and some ginger snaps,
The dress that I wiggle into
Is much too short and low and sequin-y
For my taste.

The doorbell chimes
As I slip into three inch heels.
I hurry down the hall
(Almost breaking my ankle in the process)
As to not allow my Father anymore time to interrogate
The Boy who’s name I’ll forget in ten years.

His eyes widen.
I’m glad that
He likes the dress
As much as my friends and Mother does
Because the one thing
Guys will never understand is that sequins itch so bad

My Mother oohs and ahs
And I complain just enough to make sure
She knows she has succeeded in embarrassing me.
And she snaps a picture for the mantel,
That will later migrate to the
Photo album, where we will gawk
At the dress and my hair
And how it screams twenty years ago

And later that night,
When I wash off the foundation, confetti,
And the feeling that this night only happens once,
I’ll admit to myself that I did have a tiny bit of fun.
Only a bit,
Mind you.