The Hideous Woman who darkens my doorway was on the bus tonight. Thankfully, I don’t see her often, but the rare times I do usually constitute a sufficient dose of horror so as to give me chills for a week.
The bus I was on tonight was a “two-leveled” affair in that the rear half of the bus is a step up and thus about a foot higher than the front portion of the bus. I sat in the sideways facing seats which sit in the lower half of the bus, next to the step to the upper level. If you sit in the sideways facing seats, you have a clear view of the passenger sitting in the normal forward facing seat across from you. A clear view of the person and his or her feet. So tonight, I sat down and that’s when I realized Hideous Lady was sharing tonight’s ride with me. Joy of joys. I trembled and tried not to descend into immature, high-school inspired notions of cruelty. It’s so difficult not to!
The lady is truly ugly. She is Hideous Lady. This is not her fault. Nevertheless, I think she has the distinction of being about as ugly, in the absence of congenital or accidental disfigurement, as I’ve ever seen. When I see her on the bus I shiver and try to consciously erase any preternatural consideration of her as a female far from my mind as possible. She is genderless because of revulsion. When you call someone a lady or woman, it’s a pretty neutral designation but usual insinuates there is absolutely no sexual or aesthetic motive on your part. You save words like “gal” or “chick” or “broad” for that. Hideous Lady is nowhere near the darling category of “chick.” She is anti-sexual. Not only is her face disconcerting. I’ve known many plain or downright gross chicks who still have great bodies and I would gladly hook up with such mismatched specimens. I’m about the body; faces don’t do a thing for me. Unfortunately, Hideous Lady’s sprawling physique is only surpassed in blinding splendor by her pudgy, aged and masculine face. Her face is masculine but unfortuantely, even if she was a man, she would still be butt-ugly. Even manhood could not rescue Hideous Lady from her dour mask.
How can I describe Hideous Lady without getting lost in insidious details, because that is where the devil resides, at least in this case.
She is about 55 and the only reason her gender is intelligible is due to her affinity for wearing long, canvas-type dresses which cover her legs while sill displaying her feet which are usually splayed in odd sandals. Her skin is mottled and aged and very dark and shimmery with the unspoken sheen of waxy oily buildup and her features are bulbous and her hair is frizzy and coarse but short so it stands up like the green hair you see on those little ogre dolls. Her body, like her face, seems equally bulbous and round and snomwmanly stacked in flailing and quivering distended ornaments of fatty flesh. Her long dress bunches up sloppily and drably when she sits on the seat just above me on the next level. I try to avert the sight. Tonight her sandaled muddy colored feet and parched soles asked me not to look but I could not resist the periodic glance as if to sate my delirious fascination.
The more I tried to distract myself with my Kindle and tales of capitalist pollution, the more I found I could not resist glancing at those feet which conversely repulsed me. It was as if I was asking to be nauseated. And then she began tapping those feet in sync with the music in her earphones! The Hideous Lady was toe tapping and her feet were right in front of me. Sigh. The rhythmic clapping of those long toes on the soles of her sandals drove me to despair.
I love being beautiful.