Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (26 page)

Pretty (Average) Woman

(Utilitarian Snow Boots)

J
im, David, and I are on our way to the Starbucks on the other side of the Randolph Street Bridge. It’s Wednesday and we’ve already claimed our desks. Since no one else will be in the office for another two hours, we figure we can spare the time to grab a coffee.

The bridge is steel and it’s made up of thousands of tiny metal grids. I like being on it in the summer because I can see straight down to the very river that made me want to work at this company. (The great irony is I didn’t discover access to the grassy area adjacent to the water until I was too busy to consider taking my lunch down there.)

I always get a walking-on-air vibe when I go over this bridge. Little different story in the winter, though. The grids prevent ice from forming, but the unfortunate side effect is that when the wind blows, it has nowhere to go except directly up my skirt. My feet are warmed because they’re protected by thick, ugly boots, but my thighs are freezing. It only takes us a minute to cross the bridge, but by the time we reach Starbucks, I’m a total Jen-cicle.
¹⁵⁹

Tim and David both get cups of drip coffee. They add sugar and cream at the condiment bar while I wait at the service counter for my mocha. My boots squeak on the floor as I shift my weight from one leg to the other in an attempt to defrost myself from the waist down while the hyper-caffeinated barista grills everyone in line about their New Year’s resolutions. When he gets to me, I grit my teeth before saying I resolve to drink more Starbucks. He laughs and moves on.

As soon as we leave, I kind of explode. “I hate that so much!”

Tim is puzzled. “Then why’d you order it?”

“No, not my mocha, dummy. The barista—did you hear him? He asked me about my New Year’s resolution,” I huff.

“What of it?” David asks, slurping the excess coffee off his lid.

“Doesn’t that irritate you?” I demand.

David and Tim exchange one of their Jen’s-got-PMS-again glances. “Should it?” David, the mellower of the two, asks.

“Hell, yes! I’ve never even met that guy. I could understand him asking that if I had, but I haven’t.”

Tim nods and takes a giant step away from me. “I see your point.” David nods vigorously.

“Both of you stop patronizing me. Let me put it like this—say your job is to bag my groceries, or ensure the check I deposit gets credited to the right account, or make my coffee, then my resolutions are none of your goddamned business and are certainly not small-talk fodder.”

David turns to Tim. “How was your Christmas?”

“Don’t change the subject; I’m serious! This line of questioning is a violation of the social contract.”

“Clearly,” Tim replies. He and David begin to walk faster.

I chug along behind them, trying to catch up. “The thing is, resolutions are rarely about what we already find kind of awesome about ourselves, like
, I resolve to continue to be a great parent
or
I resolve to keep visiting my senile grandma in the nursing home as often as I do
or—”

David interrupts, “Or I resolve to not garbage pick.”

“I resolve to stop drinking coffee with certifiably insane people,” Tim supplies.

“My point is resolutions generally have to do with what we don’t like about ourselves, as in
I want to lose weight (because I’m too fat)
or
I pledge to get organized (because my life is a huge mess)
or
I’m going to save money (because my spending is out of control).
Therefore, when
you
, a perfect stranger, ask me about my resolutions, you’re basically asking me to lay all my flaws bare and it’s incredibly presumptive and rude, especially when the person asking is in no position to help me achieve whatever it is I resolve to do.”

As usual, Tim argues the counterpoint. “You answered his question. By giving him an answer, aren’t you part of the problem by encouraging him to do the one thing you hate?” We get to our building’s revolving glass door. David steps aside so I can go through first. Once in, we stamp all the slush off our boots. We go up the escalator to get to the main floor and then select the bank of elevators to take us to fifteen.

“I answered because I didn’t want him spitting in my mocha. And I didn’t want to give the tired old
I resolve not to make any resolutions, yuck, yuck, yuck
response. Not everything has to be a fight with me, you know.”

David and Tim both clear their throats and look at the ceiling.

“It doesn’t! I don’t fight with any of my doctors, now do I?” I challenge.

At the same time, David and Tim both answer, “Yet.”

I sigh. “You are two enormous bags of douche. I’m going to start calling you Massengill”—I point at Tim—“and Summer’s Eve.”

“Okay, okay,” David concedes. “Then riddle me this, Batman—the next time the cashier at the grocery store asks you about your resolutions, what are you going to say?”

I consider this for a moment while Tim pulls out his magnetic card to unlock the door. We all pass through and I finally reply, “I’m going to say
I resolve to be cognizant enough to spot potential problems within myself and to begin to work on them immediately, without making a public declaration or waiting to start the improvements on an arbitrary date. And yes, I
would
like my milk in a bag.”

We’re arranging ourselves in adjacent desks and booting up our laptops by the time I thaw from our trip across the bridge. “Hey, Jen,” Tim asks, “what are you thinking about doing with your bonus when it finally comes?”

“Umm . . . probably take care of some bills, buy a real purse, maybe pay off my car note? Why?”

He replies, “You ought to consider taking a vacation. Like, a
long
vacation. To a happy place.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe I’ll do just that, Massengill.”

We’re well into spring now, but I can’t get the idea of living life like it’s a movie out of my head. And even though I hate when strangers ask about my resolutions, I believe in the power of making them.

Here goes—even though I’m a few months late—I resolve to live my life like a movie for the remainder of this year.

Now . . . how do I go about accomplishing this?

People in movies seem to live better lives when they get make-overs. I bet I need an image overhaul. Fortunately, I don’t have to have sex with Richard Gere for money to start the process. I have a secret weapon I’ve inadvertently been saving for a special occasion—my corporate American Express card.

I’ve had this card since I went to Philly last year for a month of intensive training. I’ve never bought anything on it not directly related to a business travel expense, even though I’m allowed to use it. The numbers on it are still black because I’ve pulled it out of my wallet so few times. I’m not afraid to touch it, but this is a card I have to pay in full each month or else I’d get in trouble with both Amex
and
my employer. Luckily, I get my bonus in a few weeks, so if I want to use it? I can.

I assess myself in the mirror hanging on the outside of my bathroom door.

Hair? Blackish, curly, sort of coarse,
¹⁶⁰
with a few too many grays to ignore. (How did I manage to go straight from campus to corrective color?) I don’t take care of it like I used to. When I was in school and I had a profitable night waiting tables, I’d splurge on the fancy salon across town. Sometimes I’d get a gloss put in my hair and sometimes I’d have it straightened and I’d always buy the very best product to put in it. Except when it was jammed back in a mandatory ponytail, my hair was down to my elbows, silky and beautifully layered.

For now, my cut is unremarkable. I’ve been going to Great Clips exclusively since graduation and it shows. (Being salaried has meant no profitable nights and very little splurging.) I went really short once I started working because I thought that would give me some professional gravitas. Instead, I just looked like a gym teacher. I’ve grown it back to a shoulder-length bob but it’s shapeless, except for whenever it’s humid out. Then it turns into a giant wedge of pizza.

My grocery store hair dye has done me no favors, either. There was a
purple
incident a couple of months ago when I opted for the sale brand. (Let us not speak of it again.) I’ve been running dark rinses through it lately. The gray’s gone . . . but so’s all the shine and depth. The color is as flat and black as if I went over it with a Sharpie.

My flat black hair only serves to highlight how pasty I am. I haven’t been to a tanning bed for ages and my skin’s practically translucent, except for where I’ve broken out since I used up all my Clinique products and replaced them with stuff from the drugstore. Upon closer inspection I can confirm it: my cosmetics give me the appearance of being neither wet nor wild. (Got a bit of a vampire vibe going on, though.)

I swing open the ratty folding doors in my microscopic bedroom and I feel sad at the sight of all my stuff. My closet is where ill-fitting suit jackets and cheaply cut trousers go to die. There’s not one item in here that quickens my pulse, making me excited to get dressed.

Back in school I could dress casually every day. Although I’d occasionally embrace a trend—e.g., leopard print—I always defaulted to wearing preppy items . . . nicely cut khakis, ice-creamy-colored polos, striped rugby shirts, argyle sweaters, loafers, etc. These items made me happy because I felt good when I wore them.

Clean, simple lines flatter my figure most. However, since I graduated I’ve eschewed fit for price. Discount stores like Marshalls and TJ Maxx and Stein Mart have been my main source of staples and I’m seeing what a mistake that’s been. I’ve gone for quantity over quality. I’ve screwed up by buying three cheap acrylic sweaters rather than one well-crafted twinset. I no longer buy the item that makes me feel the prettiest—I just get whatever has been marked down the most. This has to stop.

I glance at the floor. All my shoes are boxy, flat, and ugly, which makes perfect sense because they pair so nicely with my dowdy wardrobe. I see my big black snow boots taking up valuable floor real estate. They represent everything that’s wrong with my wardrobe, and ergo, my life right now. There’s no color, there’s no style, there’s just utility.

But I feel a change coming on—winter’s over and I realize I don’t have to wear what’s practical. Going forward, I should opt for pointy, heeled, and pretty. Maybe it’s time for style to trump comfort.

A makeover will likely help my career because if I feel better about myself, it will translate into my job. And if this were a movie, I’d start the process the second the thought occurred to me.

“Hey, Fletch?” I call. He’s in our living room, busily engaged in his own non-movielike activity: folding towels. “Grab your coat, we’re heading down to Michigan Ave.”

This is where I’d put the
Pretty Woman
-style shopping montage if I were making a movie. I’d show myself at the salon, in the tanning bed, at the Prescriptives counter, going in and out of boutiques, and trying on strappy shoes.