I was going to write something about the Philadelphia Orchestra or another Almodovar movie, but I've decided that worrying about my appearance should be my number one priority. I spend approximately thirty minutes on make-up, three to four days on shopping, and zero seconds prancing in front of my mirror each year. In fact, I sometimes take pride in wearing sweatpants and sneakers around this ultra-preppy Ivy League campus. But this is all wrong. Since I'll never again be as attractive as I am now, I should wear three inch heels, pluck my eyebrows daily, apply loads of powder and polish, and flirt scandalously with random men in bars so I can create some progeny before my eggs shrivel and my face looks like a wrinkled head of cabbage.
Seriously, I went to a small Halloween get-together a few days ago as a '70s disco girl. I paired a huge Afro with some Elvis sunglasses, a retro one-shouldered Express shirt, and some white jeans (the clothing was actually mine). People were suitably impressed. The good thing about looking like a bum all the time is that you really make a strong statement on the rare occasion when you look normal, or god-forbid, nice.
First, everyone loved the Afro. The only connection that I could find was that the wig was round and my face was round. For one evening, I looked completely different. I don't think I've ever styled my hair before and I've had almost the same haircut for more than ten years running. Hair and shoes are two things that I will probably never understand. I can do two hairstyles: ponytail and down. Go me. My hair is so flat and slippery straight that it will never curl. Period. And I refuse to get a perm and be left with some permanent kinky and coarse mess with the consistency of a rug. Then there's make-up and heels and a bag and an outfit and...ugh.
The old saying of "Don't judge a book by its cover" is theoretically correct, but lacking in several respects. It's highly unlikely that someone browsing in a bookstore is going to pick up a dull brown book over a snazzy blue leaflet with gold lettering. Of course, there are people who go to bookstores or Amazon with a specific title in mind, but considering the massive decline in reading each year, that population is sadly dwindling. I understand the motivation. We're all extremely visual. Substance is great, but it'll never be discovered if no one cares to take the first look. I'm not one of those women who oppose the idea of looking pretty on philopsophical terms, objectification and sexualization and blah blah, it's just that I've never really cared about my looks.
Now, a couple of us are planning to lose some weight, which is furthering my goal to look like an attractive young woman. Weight loss is something that I've never seriously contemplated, probably because I'm a huge foodie. The reason why I spend so little on clothing is because I prefer to eat out and eat out well. Also, since ice cream and chocolate are integral parts of my daily existence, dieting clearly isn't an option. On the exercise front, I'm somewhat in shape, although not what I would consider in good shape. I try to go to the gym every other day, but I probably need to go every day on this new plan. And I should run or do some land exercise...otherwise I'll suffer from osteoporosis.
On one hand, I do want to look pretty and cute (and I'm about to gag now). But... (there's always a but) I don't enjoy receiving attention. I prefer to be anonymous and relatively normal. No psychoanalyzing here, but there must be some reason that I panic and run when two nice guys, Mike and Bill, introduce themselves at a bar and hold out their hands for me to shake. I suspect (or know) that the reason why I'm so blase about my appearance is because this isn't something that I'm uberconfident in. In a few short months, I'll be out of my protective bubble and forced into the plasticky and shallow real world, so time to reinvent myself and find my style (I did not just say that).
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