The Mountain

It's not just discarded clothing; it's discarded self-esteem.

Here I am. Again. Staring at what would be a nicely-made bed if not for a mountain of dresses, discarded, one after another, for reasons that make total sense in the moment and almost none in the aftermath. Most women know, or have known The Mountain, in one form or another, and no one likes it.

Here’s my mountain-scenario. I’m showered and ready for work. Let’s say it’s a Monday, and I have a big client meeting in Connecticut. I need something that doesn’t wrinkle, because last time I was there, and wore linen, I spent the afternoon in a state of accordion.

I grab a black shift from my closet - the perfect wrinkle-free travel dress. I slip it on with a pair of pointy kitten-heeled mules and turn to leave. But then stop, as I glimpse myself from the side. How have I never noticed how low the armholes are on this dress? The lace of my bra is staring at me. And so, I have to admit, is a bit of underarm fat that I smooth into my all-too visible bra. It works. I tighten the bra straps to keep things right, but this maneuver creates cleavage. And cleavage wasn’t invited to the meeting.

I yank the dress over my head and grab another - this one, also black, with short sleeves and white trim. A quick check in the mirror and I’m good to go - no armpit fat, no bra announcing itself, no cleavage. I sit on the side of the bed to put my shoes on. And catch myself in the mirror. Actually, I catch my thighs. Jesus. Who knew this dress shimmied up so high when I sat? And I’ll be sitting - with clients who I want to impress, all day. I yank the dress down. It hikes back up.

Yank. Hike. Yank. Fuck.

I toss it on top of the sleeveless-no-go.

A gorgeous fitted green dress is next. It falls mid-calf. It’s charming and lovely. I bought it in a thrift shop years ago and have always adored it. I have to admit, I look pretty. Until I turn to the side. And then, I have to admit, I look… fat? What is this little belly doing here? Oh. Wait. I always wear a Spanx with this dress. Silly me! I open my underwear draw and silly me becomes stupid me as I realize I didn’t do laundry yesterday. The much-needed Spanx is much in need of a spin in the washer. No charming green dress for me.

I grab a navy dress that never does me wrong but it never really does me right either. It’s just there. And I need to shine today. Ah. The cream-colored dress with a scattered floral pattern. I haven’t worn it in ages, and it’s pretty, so I slip it on. Then off. Makes me look like I’m trying too hard. A simple tan shirtdress makes me look like I’m not trying hard enough.

And so it goes. The swirl of too’s that I’m all too good at accelerating. Too hippy. Too sexy. Too old. Too much cleavage. Too little style. Too trendy. Too frumpy. You name it, I’m too it. I’d love to be one of those women who looks good in everything, or one of those with zero fucks to give. But I’m neither. I’m in my underwear, giving tons of fucks. And it’s 9:15. I stamp my foot in frustration and do not love the way this act looks in the mirror.

I take a breath and it hits me. My slim black pants with a slit at the ankle! Why didn’t I think of them in the first place? I grab them, along with a raw silk blush-colored top that I love with all my heart. I slip it over my head. And scream. How did I manage to get lipstick on it? An almost perfect Chanel-red-kiss is planted on my left boob. I feel like a boob. A frustrated, stupid, too-this, too-that, boob who can’t get dressed.

The mountain has grown. My dread has grown. My lateness has increased. And my self-esteem has diminished. I vow to lose five pounds. I vow to perfect The Uniform. Or stop caring so much. But right now, I’m me. In my bra and underwear. In the mirror. Crying. Because, despite the fact that I’m about to present a great campaign, despite the fact that I’ve rehearsed, despite the fact that I’m good at what I do, I’m also a woman.

A woman with a giant mountain of “what was I thinking” on her bed.

A woman whose mind is frantically racing with excuses for her lateness.

A woman who wonders if she can call in sick.

A woman who actually feels sick.

I look at myself, then look away. I can’t stand the sight of all this angst - all this dread - all this me.

I shake my head and yank the original black dress from the bottom of the pile. I fish a black camisole from a drawer. It works perfectly under the dress. No visible bra. No armpit fat.

I grab an Uber and get to work.

The meeting goes well. Exceedingly so, actually. The presentation is tight. The work is beautiful. I’m articulate, easy-going, funny, and, yes, impressive.

At the end of the day, we celebrate with a drink. I Citibike home, feeling free and joyful, the cares of the day falling behind me, like tulip petals in my wake. My husband has dinner ready and it’s roast chicken; my favorite.

I answer his “how did it go” with a giant smile.

“I told you,” he says.

And to him, and him alone, I say what I know is true. “I was great.”

I continue to smile as I make my way down the hall.

I open the door.

And there it is.

The mountain.

I had forgotten it was there. I wince at the layers of self-reproach, the many textures of doubt and shades of anxiety.

I hate the mountain. And I hate that even the most accomplished women open bedroom doors to mountains of their own. Some are in the form of clothes on the bed. Others, of guilt, or regret, over eating or drinking, or saying, or simply being too much. Or too little. Too loud or too quiet. Too opinionated or too meek. The mountains are heavy, yet we carry them, from meetings to parties to dates.

Some mountains negate our power and strength and minimize our accomplishments. Some keep us from negotiating salaries and demanding raises.

I drape the “no’s” over my arm and hang them, ruing the time they cost me.

I dress easily the next day, because I don’t have a big meeting and I do own a thousand dresses.

“Darling!” my friend Patrick (who has me listed in his phone as “Darling”) calls out, and I blow a kiss as I scoot to my desk.

“You look fabulous!” he says, and, then, because he’s generous, adds, “You always look fabulous! How do you do it?”

“Oh, Darling,” I answer. “You have no idea.”

My smile fades as I walk toward my desk.

Because, indeed, he does not.