In spite of a 10 year difference, we often find that our emotional calendars are ironically synced. Maybe it’s a Virgo thing. This week we both learn a valuable lesson in humility, feather preening, the power of accessories, and letting your freak flag fly.
Even Peacocks Get the Blues
Some nights, your feathers are bright. Full of color. Shiny and metallic. Others, they’re falling out, trailing behind you like toilet paper stuck to your shoe.
You go out with the intention of attracting attention, then nothing happens. No winks, no gesticulations, no creeps rubbin’ their peepees on your butt (on second thought, not really a bad thing). The DJ won’t stop playing Li’l John, no matter how much you scold him and irritably recommend changing the music. Everyone’s body heat melts your eyeliner into droopy raccoon rings. You feel kinda fat. This might have been a better night spent watching Netflix documentaries, preening your feathers in the dark.
Then, there are the nights when everything is working in your favor. You feel like Stevie Nicks as you graze your (thin, toned) arms in the dim dance floor lighting. Your hair looks voluminous and carefree from certain angles. Payday was three days ago, and that bra is giving your tits like, the perfect shape.
“Tonight’s my night,” I thought as I threw on my turquoise blouse that’s long enough to conceal my thigh sacks. I grabbed my phone and headed to the mirror to primp my eyelashes, checking my Women’s Log period tracker. Mid-cycle and three flower emoticons meant it was ovulation time. Skin aglow, the pheromones were practically spilling out of my pores. God dammit, tonight is my night.
My friends and I hit the ‘club,’ and we danced like nobody was looking to get laid. Wearing sunglasses indoors, whipping out odd dance moves like we were at a Moby concert, we proudly owned the night.
“I am an American douchebag!” I thought, tilting my head back, cackling loudly.
There I was, pumping my fists, trotting around in my gold high heel sneakers like some sort of royal idiot, winking at strangers. After jiggling my way through some hot tracks, pop-locking like I was that little girl from the Missy Elliot music videos, two lovely petite blonde women notice my sexual prowess and magnetic confidence. “Bring on the compliments, ladies!” I thought as they politely tapped my shoulder.
“Do you know who Lena Dunham is?” one asks.
“YA!” I yell.
“You look exactly like her!” they shout.
“But we mean that in the best possible way.”
My beautiful feathers slowly plucked themselves out as I thanked them and hunched over to the wall.
I removed my fake neon Ray Bans, then looked out at the dance floor which now seemed so sweaty; so uninteresting. I felt disconnected from the moment that I was so deep inside of. I went from hot to homely in 10 seconds. Cheeky to chunky. Sexy to stout.
What kind of a compliment was that, anyway? Were the women referencing episode 3 of season 2 where Hannah (Dunham’s character) does a bunch of cocaine and club-dances in a neon fishnet tanktop with no bra? Which could mean, “Wow, you’re as reckless a TV character on a bunch of coke, and you’re only two beers deep.” Was I being an episode 3 girl?
Or maybe it was a weight thing. I’d been hitting up the Women’s Gym like it was a booty call. For a moment I felt unsure about my appearance, which is something that only happens when I’m out-of-my-mind menstrual.
Don’t get me wrong – Lena Dunham is an incredible woman, a role model I’m inspired by and hope to meet, ideally on purpose rather than in a fangirl situation. Girls means a lot to me, and I know how much that makes me sound like a millennial, but it’s my truth.
After dissecting their remark, I realized that I’d created a backhanded compliment in my mind. The women were being sincere, and clearly I reminded them of someone they admired. And hey, if it’s an appearance thing, that just means more to love, right? RIGHT?
At that point, I made a b-line for the bar, drained a shot of tequila, and moonwalked back into the middle of the dance floor, acting like it was me in episode 3.
Sexy Scales and the Men who Love Them
I spent the weekend nursing my newly formed dragon scales. It seems that my Khal Drogo fantasies somehow got lost in translation—instead of Mother of Dragons I have become an actual Mother Effing Dragon. While I wish that was just a metaphor, the boys really seem to like it.
Last Tuesday, after driving 4 hours to our West Coast headquarters, Kelly toted a half-panicked Me with a half-sweating body and a half-twitching face to urgent care. This was a stroke. It had to be a stroke. What else would cause this kind of hysteria across one side of my face?
It wasn’t a stroke (knock on wood), but it was Shingles. WTF is shingles you may ask?
It’s the trendy disease. Thanks to Netflix and DVR, I missed the slew of commercials warning the ELDERLY to get vaccinated for this common form of herpes (a gift from having the chickenpox)…which I, at 32, got on my FACE.
To be clear, this looks nothing like the little cute itchy red speckled chickenpox you may have experienced as a child. These bitches pick a corner of your body and populate it, along a nerve, with blisters that fill with fluid, then crust over, and fill with blood. What happens with blood blisters? Scabs. All over the right side of my face, and it hurts. Now I know how Quasimodo felt.
But there was none to be found.
Convinced that this is some cruel punishment for my #selfie obsession, I hid my scaly face as best I could through the rest of the week and weekend:
SUCCESS! Taking my cues from Memoirs of an Invisible Man, I was virtually faceless, but the universe is cruel sometimes. It turns out an obscured face wandering the streets of Los Angeles elevates you to potential movie star status. Of course this is the weekend that every cute guy in my complex decides to speak to shady old me.
Are my gleaming glossy scales a siren call to single men everywhere?
I avoided eye-contact when a beachy blonde Australian stopped me to ask my opinion of living in my complex. I kept the brim of my cap pulled low when a fluffy white puppy belonging to a chiseled bronze demi-god started hopping around on my lounge chair. Shit shit shit. Oh, hello shirtless surfer guy clicking away at your computer. No. No. Don’t look up. Keep plugging away. FUCK!
Really, who needs peacock feathers when you can have scales! I am a woman of mystery with universal appeal. While these wretched pox were unavoidable, they were also intoxicating and irresistible. Maybe…maybe…this puppy wielding sweatpants wearing apartment-dweller is the Khal Drogo of my world and my prayers really have been answered!
The wretched things are nearly gone, and as they flake away, so does the (unwanted) attention. Sigh. Now I’m left here, freshly preened and alone, wondering what my next gruesome germ-filled adventure might be.