A tribute to Red lips and Tennis shoes

by remembertoexhale


Do you remember when you believed that you would be a star?
when the stage lights of Broadway still called your name
movies in Hollywood seemed an audition away
and the waiting on tables seemed like a stepping stone to fame

When you decided that broadway didn’t “get” you,
and the gray streets of New York, New York seemed even grayer
you packed your single tapestry travel bag
and your two pairs of shoes- one of which was a pair of dance shoes
and you headed for the palm trees of Hollywood

You dyed your hair blond monthly
and you wore heels on your waitressing job at the diner
hoping that some Steven Spielberg would walk in the diner on Sunshine Boulevard
and say you were exactly what he was looking for
you would tell him you were really actually an actress
and he would audition you right there and then

But slowly, one missed audition turned into two
and two turned into three
and every second girl at the audition was blonder
and had bluer eyes
and your Broadway red lips turned a washed out apricot
and in a desperate attempt, they turned baby pink to make your eyes look bluer

The soft lines around your eyes turned hard
and the mess on your apron rarely got cleaned off
unless it was a ketchup stain those were the bane of your existence
you stopped dying your hair
and you stopped wearing heels to work at the diner
and the one audition a week was missed because you needed the money
to pay for one month of your three month rent contract
which was the longest contract you had ever had

And then with mousey brown hair
and your single tapestry travel bag
you went in search of the neon lights of Vegas
you found that it was in the middle of a desert
You waited the tables once more
this time in a corset.
and you made the burlesque stage  once a month
donning your red lipstick from your Broadway days

But the corset eventually proved to tight
and your youth was long gone.
and your heels are now tennis shoes to accommodate the long hours waiting tables.

And somewhere along the way your dreams of the stage
were forgotten when you were engrossed in scrubbing the ketchup stains off your apron
and somewhere along the trip to the kitchen or back
they were lost among the last sips in the bottom of someone else’s chipped coffee cup