Gloria

All my whites have turned a dull pistachio. At first I figured I was seeing things, a trick of the light. Really it’s all just green.

Because of the lack of young children in my own household, I’ve decided to alter the direction of my independent study project. Instead, I will focus on the psychological effects of perceptions of beauty in Oman. As I explained it to my sponsoring professor:

“It is no secret that opinions concerning ones’ own, as well as others, appearance have a considerable affect on psychological issues such as self-esteem, goal attainment, societal acceptance, etc, and I hope to gain a better understanding of these and other concepts through my research. Not only am I interested in what these women find beautiful (hair color/length, body shape, henna) and who they feel has obtained these characteristics (celebrities, family members, themselves), but why these particular assets are desirable (does the loveliness of the abaya represent dignity and class? and in what way?), and how they are affected by these aspects of appearance (having dark enough eyes makes one feel ___ but being too short makes one feel ___).”

Now, each evening I flip through the glossy pages of Arab fashion magazines, noticing visual patterns and translating articles related to aesthetics. Two nights ago the music I quietly played from my laptop brought "Meadow" and "Hunter" into the dining room to shift passively on the neighboring couches. Free Bird came on and, as is usual with me, I couldn’t help but get up and start dancing between the rooms. The girls watched, occasionally pretending the shade-less lamp was a mic and stand as we moved through Need You Tonight, Tango de Roxanne, Cellphone’s Dead, Play that Funky Music, Ice Cream. Jumping around, racing between the sitting room and dining table, spinning and shaking and generally making an absolute fool of myself, happy to just be moving with music behind. But the girls remained stagnant. I returned to my work, figuring they must be disinterested, but "Meadow" followed with, “Sawrar, let’s go your room, to dance.”
Best idea I’ve heard all month.
At first they stuck to mimicking my ridiculousness, easing their way into the relative publicity of this dancing, but it didn’t take long for both girls to shed all inhibition. For the next hour, "Meadow", "Hunter" and I worked our way through Skynyrd and Floyd, I’m Your Venus and I’m a Hustler Baby. They would tell me to sit and avert my eyes while they put together spontaneous choreographies, hooking arms and somersaulting off beds. They slid down walls and shook their hips, watched themselves in the mirror and strutted from one side of the room to the other.
They were so happy.

You think I’d crumble
You think I’d lay down and die
Oh no not I

Haha… I can see this becoming habitual.