I Wore Lipstick Just for This

I decided to add a splash of brightness to my Zoom calls for work by wearing vibrant, attention-grabbing lipstick. Not just any lipstick, but a lipstick that exudes confidence and allure. I even went the extra mile by strutting across the grocery store parking lot to create the illusion of having wider hips. And during my son’s baseball practices, I shamelessly stuck out my “sexy bum” just to see how it felt (which, honestly, felt quite ridiculous).

Interestingly, without making any other notable changes to my appearance or personality, I witnessed a shift in the way men I had known for years started to respond to me. In all the time our sons spent playing together, it was as if the Baseball Dads suddenly became aware of my existence.

During practice, I struck up conversations with Cute Dad, while Tall Dad kindly positioned himself to shield me from the sun as I squinted from the bleachers. Canadian Dad even gave me a high-five and gently traced his fingers across my palm before releasing his grip.

Although I initially found the principles underlying these experiences preposterous, they seemed to have some effect. For a few weeks, I felt a sense of empowerment every time someone allowed me to skip ahead in line at the self-checkout, and I eagerly awaited the attention to lead to a potential date. However, several months have passed, and I am still waiting.

These days, I keep receiving reminders to order more lipstick, assuming that I must be running low. However, I haven’t worn lipstick in weeks. It occurred to me that the attention I garnered by following these principles wasn’t guiding me towards the future I truly desired. Instead, it seemed to reflect a primal, instinctual response that, though initially flattering, felt like a shallow substitute for genuine connection. Why should I bother with lipstick just to be reminded that the most essential element is missing in those fleeting moments of attraction?

According to the boot camp syllabus, I should be engaging in playful banter with men on dating apps, using compliments that are actually disguised insults because “men enjoy the chase.”

You know what I truly desire? A captivating stranger who approaches me from across a crowded room, catching my attention. “I couldn’t help but notice your beautifully applied lipstick,” he might say, while offering me a moist toilette to remove it. He’ll study my appearance, perhaps frowning at the tightness of my jeans that I barely managed to zip up. “Let’s escape from here,” he’ll suggest. “You seem like you want to slip into something more comfortable.”

Rebecca Anne Nguyen is a co-author of the memoir “Where War Ends: A Combat Veteran’s 2700-Mile Journey to Heal.”