shake your bon bon

from weheartit.com

Once upon a time--third through seventh grades, to be exact--I was in love with a swivel-hipped singer named Ricky Martin. Remember him? I wanted to be the one making him take his clothes off and go dancing in the rain. Figuratively speaking, of course; I was only nine years old. Who do you think I am?

I had a poster of him in my bedroom, and, if my memory serves me well, I'm fairly certain that I practiced kissing on it. Typical. His face was just so tan and...well, symmetrical. Of course, I moved on to other, slightly more real crushes, and that poster is probably crumpled up somewhere in one of the many memory boxes I have in the storage closet. Also, it turns out Ricky Martin is quite gay. Story of my life, really, but it just allowed me to move on faster since I knew that now there really was no chance we'd ever be together.

Fast forward ten years or so. One sunny September Saturday, I walk into work and who is seated at a table by the window but Señor Ricky Martin himself. A little scruffy, with mirrored aviators on, but still, unmistakably, that tan, symmetrical face. One of my childhood idols, in the flesh, mere inches away. Sitting, unaware of the flood of emotions coursing through my body. Nostalgia. Breathless anticipation. An uncontrollable urge to laugh, both at myself and at how utterly ridiculous life is sometimes.

As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said:

"Life is infinitely stranger
than anything the mind could invent."

i bet you think this song is about you

from weheartit.com

I hate to say it, but it's true. I care about what I look like. I've always cared. I've always been the one comparing myself to others to make sure I'm cool enough, stylish enough, etc. I mean, we all do that, to an extent (at least, I hope so!). We need to make sure we look appropriate for the situation, the milieu, in which we find ourselves.

But lately I have found that I am succumbing to the pressures of New York City even more, in that I literally cannot leave the house without makeup on, or in the twenty minutes I spend in front of my closet every morning trying to decide what to wear. I have become even more obsessed with my image. And you know what isn't helping? Working at the restaurant.

I work at a pretty hip place. It's a hotel restaurant. I seat people who give hundred-dollar-handshakes, and celebrities. I need to look good so I get some tips. I need to look good, because otherwise, I will be looked down upon. Everyone's always telling me I do look good, and, sadly, these compliments have become what I strive for every night. If I don't get complimented, I'm doing something wrong.

The other day we got a new hostess. Tall, lanky, a beautiful doll. I felt like a child next to her. I found myself fishing for compliments from the staff to boost my temporarily deflated ego. I literally heard myself saying those words and wanted to slap myself.

Why does what you look like have to be such an important part of social life, especially here in New York City? It's funny (not in a haha-funny way, more of an interesting/ironic funny sort of thing) how far being good-looking can get you. Tall, attractive men get promoted more often, or so studies have shown. The pretty girls are the ones that get in to exclusive bars and clubs (not that that's what I aspire to, but still). It's all about image here, and I'm really starting to resent it. I want to rise above it. All I want to do is go camping in the Adirondacks for two weeks: no makeup, lake baths, no mirrors. And I don't want to be judged.

It's strange, really. All of the staff at the restaurant tell me they like me because I'm not all about image--there's more to me than just my face. And yet I find myself becoming more and more shallow day by day, spending less time beautifying my mind and more time learning how to apply my eyeliner just-so.

I think I need a swift kick in the rear.

objects in mirror are better than they appear(ed)

(fotolog on weheartit)

I was in the Strand recently, browsing through the maze of bookshelves and relishing the smell of books old and new. I stumbled upon the poetry section, and, always wanting to be more interested in poetry than I have been in the past, I decided to take a closer look and picked up a collection of T.S. Eliot poems.

I studied Eliot in high school, closely, even; we had to be familiar with some of his work and to be able to differentiate his words and structures from his contemporaries'. I flipped through the pages and found 'The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." The only thing I remembered about this poem was simply how much I had hated the fact that I had to read and analyze it.

I leaned against a pillar (fearing the bookshelves would fall like dominoes) and read the poem. "Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky." I loved it. And I got to thinking...

It's funny how we often dislike (or even hate!) something we are forced to do, but then, upon re-discovering the same thing on our own, we change our mind. Like me and poetry, for example. Or me and art museums. Me and practicing piano. Or me and arugula. I could go on.

I wonder why that is, why things that seemed so horrible while they were occurring end up being some of life's little pleasures. I think it has a lot to do with independence and choice. Choosing to read a poem, or eat a pine nut, is a lot different than being forced to do so with no other reasonable explanation other than "Because I said so."

Choices...

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
T.S. Eliot