Right. So as soon as I find a pattern in my schedule, I go and blow it all to hell. But I'm back now, and have some more thoughts (must be lonely little critters...)
This weekend was chock full o' pipe band gigs (which I'm loving!). Friday night and Sunday afternoon were spent at the Columbine Country Club, playing for the annual Polo Classic. Talk about a fish out of water.
Besides the obvious difference of them having money and me not, there are several other things that separate their world from mine. I'll focus on the more visibly apparent ones. As we played at the entrance to the black tie affair Friday night, I watched the Parade of Plastic go by. There was more silicone in that tent than I've ever seen. And more fake tans (at least, I hope they're fake), high heels sinking into the grass and dresses from stores I'd never venture into. All of this was not lost on my male counterparts. No, not by any means.
It's always amusing to watch otherwise mature, level-headed men, when a Barbie doll walks by. I'll cling to my belief that these guys really do value the virtues that their wives and girlfriends provide, which I'm not sure these processed pretties would -- intelligence, humour, substance, the ability to make more than reservations for dinner.....
I found myelf instinctively sucking in my gut, standing up straight, and willing my freckles to disseminate into an olive complexion. Why? I wouldn't cram my feet into a pair of Manolo Blahniks if you gave them to me for free, nor would I go under the knife for plastic surgery if you paid me. But somehow I secretly wish I looked like them, so as to garner some of the attention so drooly, er, duly lavished by every straight man there. After all, you can only demonstrate your intellect or dazzle with your wit if you get someone to actually talk to you, right?
All of this reminds me of a fantastic article I read in Glamour magazine a few months ago. For those who don't know, Glamour is a fashion mag, yes, but it has considerably more substance and brain than say, Cosmo. Glamour realizes that we're not all kewpie dolls. Aisha Tyler (you'll know her from her guest appearances on Friends, as Ross' paleontologist girlriend) authored it, and after reading it, I instantly felt better about living in the body I do, and living the life I do. I'd passed it on to some of the women on my address list, but thought it worth posting here, especially after this weekend's environment. Check out the article, and feel better about being (or loving) a real person.
And, to stay with the pattern of disbursing a little of my own writings each time, here's a bit from my younger days. I'm less fatalistic now (I'd like to think), but the underlying theme persists -- a few more times through the article, perhaps....
"Beastly Beauty"
Silken, smooth auburn
hair
Falling in perfect waves
Over a fashionably pale face.
Deep blue dancing eyes,
Set off by a pair of
Crimson lips.
The cover for a brillliant mind
And a charming, bubbling personality.
What I long to be,
But will never achieve,
For my own face is horribly
Distorted,
Repulsive to all who are fated to gaze upon it.
Maybe that's why I'm so lonely.
P.N.
10-2-87