He She and Me

He She and Me
Sometime between childbirth and menopause a woman feels a certain confusion about her body and her feminine identity. It has to do with giving up the girl and embracing the woman. For some, clothing becomes a means to cover rather than reveal the insidious changes of aging -a thickening here, a jiggle there, some thing protruding, something sagging. Unfortunately, the result of ducking and covering can give the appearance of a prudish modesty. Like not knowing whether you’re shopping the men’s or women’s section in the L.L. Bean catalogue. (or caring). Some women are not shy about just letting it all hang out; others starve themselves thin only to realize that bony is never really sexy. Trying to stem the tide, choices which were once intuitive become grueling. Is the hot pink top “fun” or just garish? Will the low cut dress reveal cleavage or crepe? How short is too short?

It was this type of burning question that was flitting through my brain while running errands in my min-van, when I first glimpsed the he-she. Like a river of perdition, an old highway runs through the most exclusive neighborhood in town, dividing it from our still respectable, but not so tony neighborhood. Formerly a means of getting in or out of town in a hurry, it has a decaying “route 66” feel to it; sleazy motels and burger joints. The streetwalkers and transients who amble up and down have a kind of lazy ease as they do whatever it is they do, as if it were just easier to sit at the bus stop on a hot day and drink beer out of a paper bag. When I first saw the he she walking, there was a flash of recognition. He she looked familiar.

The next time I saw him her, I knew. He she was me. He she had curly hair cut in a bob like mine. His her outfit looked like it had come out of my closet. It was troubling. He she was strutting my stuff.

I became intrigued with seeing what he she was up to. He she was always spotted in the same three block area, always casual, never trampy. He she would pop up regularly, but randomly; now and then. It was like reading the latest fashion magazine in the grocery checkout. He she was wearing keds –retro -glance down, check. Capris long enough to cover the knee-wrinkles –check. His her hair was different – I was struggling with the dilemma of what to do about the gray hairs that seemed to be multiplying – yes! Why didn’t I think of that – highlights!

He she was my muse and I was his hers. Each sighting revealed a slight change; a nuanced response to the current season or style. Sunglasses would change size and shape, the shoes always matched the pocketbook, the pocketbook always restrained and tasteful. He she was more adventurous with his her hair than me – a reddish rinse, a blunt cut, bangs; once a bright scarf tied casually. He she was always feminine and stylish, yet tastefully subdued. Seeing him her pulling it all together gave me the confidence to trust my personal style and loosen up a little. I haven’t seen him her in a long time, and I kind of miss him her. In his her own way, he she made a statement about the particular beauty of an ordinary mom or housewife, and put it on a pedestal, or rather on the street. Whoever, whatever, and wherever you are, he she, I thank you for the complement.