New Skin

I am invisible. It's true. I don't have special powers or a magical cloak or anything like that. It's just my skin. My plain, boring, ordinary skin. It doesn't make me stand out it in a crowd. It makes me easy to miss. Unnoticeable. Unremarkable.

But I have a secret. A gift. Something I've been saving for a rainy day. Lately, it's been pouring. So I dig deep into my closet, rummage through the winter parkas and the ski jumpers and finally I find it—my New Skin.

I put it on carefully, like a delicate pair of pantyhose, and slide it up my body. It encases my feet, envelops my hips, and paints a delicate canvas across my face. It replaces my limp brown locks with glossy flowing chocolate curls that hang mid-way down my back.

The reflection in the mirror is foreign to me. Who is this woman with smooth, supple unmarked skin? Who's smoky eyes are those, surrounded by coal, sparkling back at me? Who's lips are those, full and plump, an unnatural shade of red?

The little black dress should be too tight but it fits like a dream. It lifts and accentuates my breasts, hints at a narrow waist and hugs my hips like a familiar lover. If I must say so, I am a thing a beauty. A sight to behold. No longer will I be invisible.

When I first step outside I am confident. My skin fits me perfectly and I know that I am beautiful. I am desirable. I am everything that I have ever wanted to be.

"Hey! Baby! Gimme yo numba!" That is the first shout thrown my way. It comes from a car full of young men and they speed away before I can react, much less respond, laughing, honking their horn at me. What an odd courting ritual.

I've walked half a block and already my new skin is starting to wear on me. I suddenly feel uncomfortable and tug and the hem of my little black dress. No matter how many times I pull it down it creeps seductively up my thigh with each step, as if it had a mind of its own, giving its own little "peep show".

As I'm tugging away at my dress another car pulls up beside me. This young man has the courtesy of turning down the music blaring from his speakers. He says nothing at first, and, unsure about the mating ritual for someone wearing this type of skin, I wait for him to speak. He looks me up and down several times, then sucks on his bottom lip. "How much?"

I may be wearing new skin, but I'm not an idiot and I'm definitely not a whore. Insulted and red-faced I turn away from him and keep walking. I've never experienced anything like this before. Is this what The Beautiful People have to endure? Was my old skin really that bad after all?

I wrap my arms around myself. Use them like a protective cloak that can hide my beautiful new skin. But it's hopeless. With each step my breasts bounce enticingly, begging for attention. The little black dress caresses my hips, uplifts my ass and elongate my legs. I am a walking dream. And I have never been so uncomfortable.

With almost military precision I turn back around. March with purpose back up the steps to my home. I rush to my closet, my finger on the zipper and rip the skin from my body. The hair, the dress, the mile-a-minute legs, the shoes, all of it. I yank it from my body and stand naked in the mirror.

The reflection that looks back at me is not so bad anymore. My breasts aren't firm and high. My hips aren't narrow. My legs are simply an extension of my body. But as I look at myself in the mirror, stripped bare, what I see now is beautiful.

My gaze falls to the crumpled New Skin on the floor. With gentle care I place it on a hanger and put it back, way back, far into my closet.

Maybe I'll wear my not-so New Skin another day. On another rainy day. But for now, I am happy with the skin I am in.