The Goddess Speaks
The Goddess Speaks
I switched on the television set and Oprah filled my screen. She was interviewing a woman photographer who had just published a book entitled "Women Before 10 a.m." Intrigued, I sat and listened. Real women don’t sleep in
According to talk-show host Oprah Winfrey, the book is full of photos of women taken at the moment they arise in the morning. Models, actresses and wives of powerfully rich men fill the pages.
The photographer summed up her book by explaining that because her subjects are caught on film without what she calls their "mask" -- makeup and hundred dollar wardrobes -- their real selves shine through. She claimed therefore, that her Hasselblad managed to capture the women's true spirits, fresh, pure and unadulterated.
Oprah cut to a montage of photos. One by one, still shots flashed across my screen. The photographs were beautifully sexy. Long tresses of auburn and blond curls fanned out across silken pillows. Lithe, lean bodies sprawled languidly across designer sheets and silk coverlets lay rumpled just enough so as not to look too cumbersome. A whisper of curtain fluttered just off to the side and hinted of the cool breeze fanning the sleeping goddess nearby.
I sat amazed and stunned. "NO WAY!" I thought to myself. "Yeah, RIGHT!" I quietly agreed.
The flickering montage ended and the camera zoomed in on Oprah. The look on her face said "WOW!" but her lips formed a "Yeah, RIGHT." And as if she could see me, I nodded in agreement.
I clicked off the TV and tried to recall the last few hours:
It is 5:30 in the morning and my alarm has just gone off. Kona weather has turned my bedroom into a sweatbox, the air heavy and warm. One by one, my senses reluctantly come alive.
I stretch my arm, bringing my hand up to my neck. The skin near my mouth feels thick and gluey, and in sleepy embarrassment I quickly wipe the mess away. I shift and turn.
A crumpled ball of mismatched cotton, my patchwork blanket lies in a dusty heap beside me. The incessant beeping of the alarm forces me out of bed and face to face with my image in my mirrored closet doors.
Hair squarely angled on one side and plastered flat on the other, my head is a Picasso masterpiece. No amount of smoothing seems to help, so I give up trying. Avoiding further eye contact with my misshapen image, I plod down the hall.
With the flick of a switch, my bathroom is ablaze with 150 watts of illumination. And there I am. Lit up in truthful glory. Squinting only emphasizes the two sets of bags which hang like wide U's under my eyes. Patches of dry skin and swollen mid-month eruptions splotch across my face.
I look bloated and tired, old and creased, bumpy and dry. This is me without my mask. Without the moisturizer, the concealer, the blush and the rest of my makeup which successfully hides, blends in and brings color to this otherwise pale and splotchy mess.
Unlike the glamorous women in the book, the baggy and creased face looking back at me is real. No soft lighting to mute and shade. No $300 camera lens that transforms a lava field into a sea of black velvet. Just truth laid bare by 150 watts.
And like millions of other women across the country, what stares back at me before 8 a.m. is the harsh reality of a 9-to-5 job and tending kids' runny noses. Of checking homework, playing referee and "What's for dinner, mom?" It's half-finished conversations, piles of laundry and a quick hug out the door. Real women before 8 a.m. I can see Oprah now, smiling and nodding in agreement.
Debra Evans is a wife, mother of two, secretary and writer.
The Goddess Speaks runs every Tuesday
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