Alas, I quit growing and never made it above 5’5” so my “modeling” career was over before it actually began. But I still loved Vogue, and eventually, I had a subscription to Bazaar as well. I determined that somehow, some day, I was going to be one of those sophisticated people walking around, just like in the magazines.
It’s ironic actually, as I was, and still am, a slob. I wear shorts and t-shirts. EVERY. DAMN. DAY. I have no compunction about wearing torn and tattered clothing. I rarely look nice unless I have to. If I go out to lunch, I will begrudgingly put on nicer shorts or a skirt, but I spend a lot of time avoiding that. On Saturday evenings when Kevin and I go out, I’m always complaining about how he looks better than me.
Now don’t get me wrong. I can look nice. I just choose not to. I feel that as long as I have the knowledge that I can clean up, why bother? I don’t really feel defined by people’s ideas of what “beauty” is. But occasionally, even I must dress up. It’s these occasions that kill me the most. My rule of thumb is that if I’m really dressing up, what the hell, why don’t I go ahead and put on makeup and jewelry. So when that actually happens, people are startled - shocked actually - and pretty rude.
Something usually comes out of their mouths like, “Oh my god Lynn, look how good you’re capable of looking” or my personal favorite, “You sure do clean up well!” At any rate, sometimes it’s worth it just to shock the hell out of people. Lately, people have been asking if I got my hair cut. “Yeah, about a year ago” is my response. It’s just that I put my hair back in a ponytail in the morning to go to the gym, run my errands like that and then go home and shower. I really don’t mind running around looking like shit.
After the shower, my hair is down, but at that point I really don’t see people anymore, so I suppose that nobody really knows what I look like.
Wait. I was actually making a point at the beginning of this story, and of course I got off on a tangent. The point was that when I moved to New York, I was prepared to get a sweet job, dress up in suits and become a “sophisticated” New Yorker. I had it all figured out. I would live on the Upper East Side, work at some major financial institution, have tons of awesome friends and go to bars and order Scotch. I knew Scotch was the “sophisticated” drink, and that’s what I was going to drink.
It all came crashing down when I didn’t get a job at a major financial institution and got a job at International Paper Company instead. I did have suits but they were irritating and uncomfortable so I changed out of them as soon as possible. But in perhaps the biggest blow to the entire “sophistication” plan was I COULDN’T STAND SCOTCH!! I hated it! Could it have been the horrible experience I once had with a bottle of Southern Comfort? I’m not sure, but the Scotch thing was out. Then I tried martinis. This was in the day before all that flavored crap so we’re talking THE REAL DEAL. Shaken, not stirred ... you get the picture. Nope. Couldn’t stomach that either. My boss gave me a Manhattan to try and ... DISGUSTING!
So there I am, living in New York, and still the same damn beer drinking girl that I was when I got there. I’m still a beer drinker. Love the stuff. But I have never gotten over the sheer disappointment of my inability to be a “sophisticated” person. Maybe in my next life!
