Her expression was so precious. She was surprised since she didn’t think I would defend myself. She hastily took a step back and forced a flimsy grin to hide her humiliation. “I apologize, Edith,” she whispered. “We simply don’t want you to have a clown’s appearance.”Stupid? Think of the audacity! Between my ferocious gaze and his wife’s tense giggle, my son was perplexed. His flippant, “Okay, Mom, enjoy the circus,” attempt to diffuse the situation simply made me feel more enraged. Sarah laughed and said, “Come on, Steph, let’s not miss the circus,” before turning to leave me standing by myself and feeling upset.I was wounded for a good five minutes. I was thinking about myself as I stood there, gazing at my mirror. Was crimson lipstick really out of my price range? Should I follow their model of the ideal appearance for a woman my age? I felt the melancholy seeping into my chest and becoming like a heavy stone. Then again, something changed. That melancholy gave way to fury. No, I refused to allow them to control my life’s course. I refused to allow them to take away the characteristics that defined who I was. They were in for more if they believed they could intimidate me into submitting. I was going to impart to them a knowledge that would stick with them. I kept quiet for the following few days. Not even my friends at our monthly bridge game knew about the incident.
