Standing in front of the three way mirror with my thick mismatched socks looking clownishly large beneath what looked to be painted on denim, I was mortified. "They make me look short," I announced to my coworkers, ignoring their oohs and aahs.
"You are short," said the one who is six feet tall. She had a point.
"They make my butt look huge," I continued, forgetting I was not an average customer off the street and there was no real incentive to sell me a bill of goods, nothing in the employee manual that would prevent my audience from crushing me with brutal honesty.
The tall woman fell on the grenade for the rest of them. "So what's wrong with that?" Ouch. Never expect an African American woman to coddle you just because you are completely self absorbed in "white girls' problems." Not even if she's angling for a commission.
I did what I would encourage any short white woman with body image issues to do. I removed my puffy socks and replaced them with three inch wedges. Okay, I definitely looked taller, and if my ass still looked huge I hardly noticed because I was too busy concentrating on not breaking my ankle as I teetered back over to the mirror. "Ooh," said one of the white women. "Now you sort of look like Olivia Newton John in that scene in Grease when she comes out in the really tight leather pants!" Sort of, I suppose, if you ignore the wrinkles and the muffin top spilling out over the waistband. I took it as a compliment, as it was intended. I've always wanted to look like an aging hooker.
After I had peeled off the jeans and replaced the tag that had been ripped off when it became hopelessly wedged somehow inside my twisted thong, I folded the pants that are worth their weight in gold and placed them back in their proper place in the pile. I muttered to myself about the price, though I had to admit they did look flattering, in a painful sort of way. I decided I would treat myself to a pair, as soon as the first royalty check for the great American novel I plan to write clears.
I consoled myself on the ride home with the knowledge that I am spending money on far more practical things, like fixing up my house so it will sell for almost as much as that pair of cropped jeans. I remain hopeful that a few coats of paint on the walls and some sanding and dark varnish on the wood floors will cover up the wear and tear and give the worn out old house enough of a face lift to sell. It is worn out. It is old. But if we sweep the fluffy mismatched socks under the bed and dress the old girl up to look real nice and we make sure people don't examine things too closely, it'll look as good as any aging hooker can look. Better, even, if that's possible.
When I arrived home later in the evening after a few hours of tutoring (always doing what I can to fill up the premium denim piggy bank), I could not get my car into the garage. Surprisingly, given how quickly and how often things seem to go south with the house, it wasn't a functional issue. My daughter and a few of her high school team members had used the garage as an a studio for an art project they need for some upcoming team celebration. (I'm not the mom who bakes cookies; the best I can do is offer up the house for an occasional royal mess.) The floor where my car usually sits and leaks fuel was littered with brightly colored and sparkly sheets of poster board, all looking as if they were glued there by the thick edges of spray paint outlining their borders. Later, after my daughter had lifted the dry (well, dry-ish) masterpieces into the house, the floor of the garage looked like a Picasso-esque painting of a house, colorfully edged windows placed at all sorts of odd angles, glitter everywhere creating odd shadows and configurations. Maybe the new decor would help sell the house; after all, one man's garbage is another man's art. Or something like that.
Actually, the house has a pretty good chance. I'm going deeper than the paint and the varnish, fixing up the plumbing and the heating and all the other essential life functions. As for me, I can paint on all the designer jeans I want but at the end of the day I'm still going to need to pee at odd hours and my trusty old thermostat is becoming increasingly unreliable. There's no hiding the muffin top when you suddenly feel as if someone could fry an egg on your face and the only way to restore some sort of natural color to your skin is to strip down to a bra and a paper thin camisole. I'm confident my house will yield a better return on all the money I'm throwing into it than I would looking like a worn out old half naked hooker strutting around in high heels and outrageously expensive jeans. If I'm wrong, look out suburbia; I'll be out there in the doorway, sweating my ass off and sucking in my muffin top, trying not to look too short.
As soon as I manage to wipe the thick layer of goo off my shoe from the puddle of paint I stepped into in the garage, I'll be able to assess things better.
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