My Woman Wears Red

I found my mother's satiny red, half-slip in the back of one of my drawers this morning while hunting for something that just might fit on, over, and around my arse and thighs. (I was unsuccessful.) This slip, this undergarment, this, this, flimsy, pseudo silk symbol of womanhood, has travelled tirelessly with me, not once complaining of loud music or an excess of fast food, on too many road trips to count. Most were taking me, yet again, to one more place I would try to call home. As a child, this silly, pretty thing stood for all that I could not yet be, but wanted so desperately to become. I wanted to be that sultry woman, hair piled atop her cat-like head, strolling slowly through the streets, knowing that just underneath my prim and pristine exterior lay a piece of material that, should one happen to catch a glimpse, would reveal a more daring, sexier side. I would live my adult life as a secret siren dressed in crimson. As a young girl, I often begged my mother to let me borrow this racy accessory, but she could never bring herself to allow me the privilege of donning this sassy slip underneath my reserved Sunday attire. Of course, I get it now, having my own prissy little princess begging to borrow bras, jewels (fake, of course), and too high for my own good heels, all at the not so advanced age of four. There are those things that I gladly share with her, understanding the importance of stepping into your mother's shoes for the first time, feeling the boost in your "girliness" as you are allowed to introduce yourself to your inner woman to be, no matter how much she might change by the time you actually meet face to face. By the time I was allowed to borrow, then call this simple treasure my own, it had lost its sense of mystery, the forbidden feeling it once possessed. I kept it, and continue to keep it, no matter how tucked away it might be, to remind me of the simple joy I experienced as a child, thinking of what my "woman self" would look like when it was my turn to wear the simple red slip. The best part is when my child self , and the woman that I am now, meet, then smile the smile of recognition. It is a memory that I can touch. A memory that I can carry with me. It is a memory that I will one day give to my daughter, and hope that she chooses to tuck it safely away in her heart, in a drawer, and maybe, just maybe, wear it every once in a while, feeling sassy, beautiful, and as special as she already knows she is, and will become.