Utterly Fabulous

There have been some pretty amazing posts around the blogosphere these days. The Blog Antagonist is writing a blue streak, Girl's Gone Child is making me cry, and bloghers in general are sharing amazing, profound and thought provoking ideas.

So it's with some chagrin (HAH, how often do you get to use THAT word!) that I must confess, the thing that has kept me awake for the last week (ok, not literally...it's been haunting me then) is how much of a frump I feel like. Like if I even tried to get fabulous, I'd end up a mocking image of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. And really, who wants to look like a demented John Water's icon when it's not even Halloween and the memories of being fabulous at Henri David's annual bashes are a good 15 years behind you?

I'd like to report that this is simply a clothes thang, and a wish to be rid of the blemishes that will not go away, the scaly feet and the once chicly cut hair that now merely resembles Cousin Itt's on a bad day...maybe even more than a pathetic attempt at a play for sympathy (snort).

The thing is, I've never been a clothes horse. I hate shopping, with the possible exception of shoes. Shoe shopping I have down. Upon entering a realm of shoes my eyes become precision targeting devices, scanning rows and rows with brutal efficiency. The right shoe will stop the relentless wave of dismissal by being either exactly what I had been looking for, or something beyond my wildest expectations. Everything else is summarily ignored.

But clothes shopping...ugh. I feel myself starting to hyperventilate at the thought. I have the worst luck clothes shopping. Inevitably, I never find what I am thinking of, and I get livid at the knowledge that I am going to spend over $40 for jeans, let alone $20 for a bra. I have expensive taste, and if I can't get (read afford) what I like, I settle for simple classic practical clothes. Which is hard enough. I once left Target in a fury because I could not find a simple, white, crew neck t-shirt. I mean...excuse me? So inevitably, I end up in a lousy mood and the urge to scream loudly at no one in particular. I don't have a very extensive wardrobe, as you may well imagine.

Granted, money is definitely an issue. And age. I can no longer feel fabulous wearing the chic/punk I invented for myself in art school, simply because nearing forty, I know better. The fabulousness of retro 20's meets fishnet and denim would not fit into my current realm of comfort. Which, sadly, is a solid t-shirt and khakis or jeans. I lost the habit of wearing earrings and bracelets during the first year with the Impling, and have yet to start wearing them again. I dress through my child now. She gets the funky flowered yoga pants, the embroidered jeans, the cute little peasant blouses and ruffled t's and fun little sun tunics. The cute tweed skirts, funky hair bands, and clunky black shoes covered with glittering stars.

At least I have my memories. So here they are. The two times I felt utterly fabulous.

Meaning, more accurately, that I looked fabulous. I felt fierce...goddess-like...all powerful...like nothing could touch me.

The first time, I was still in school, just after having a brutal experience with my then boyfriend. The mother of all fights that we both knew spelled the end of the relationship, if not the friendship. The best thing would have been to just call it off and never talk to each other again. Of course, this was not to be. Because previous to the breakup, both Mike* and I had agreed to help a mutual friend with a blowout fashion show/apartment eviction, and we were both in it up to our eyeballs.

For Mike, it meant working the spotlight. For me, it meant opening the show. I donned my red Louise Brooks wig, a pair of 5 inch platforms, multi colored hot-pants, and a matching vest that had “GAY PRIDE” beaded in vibrant sparkles on the back. There was exactly one button between my boobs and the world.

The studio apartment had been emptied of everything our friend owned for this party. All that remained was the runway, dominating the room; the racks of clothes behind the scrim; a huge sound system; kegs and a small makeshift bar; and about 200 people packed into the spaces in between. I'd spent hours before practicing walking in the damn shoes, praying I wouldn't kill or maim myself or anyone else, and now I waited in the dark, weight on one leg, back to the audience, while a hush fell, and was just as suddenly blasted away by the first riff of Techno remix Carmina Burana. I waited, through the first swell, shifted my weight to the other foot, listened to the whistles and cheers as the music finally whomped into a bassline that shook the floor and rattled the windows, and then there was my beat. The spot flashed, and I spun my face into it, missiles shooting from my irises towards the asshole behind the light, and whipping my body around, walked the walk. My feet nailed the wood of the runway, my body moved with the attitude, the audience boiled, arms punching the air, waving, screaming and whistling and die die die I strutted my fabulous bod towards that light with nothing in my mind but fuck you fuck you fuck you, in sync with the blasting music. I worked it. I was high on the adrenaline, the heat, the noise, my anger, and my triumph. I hadn't tripped. The rest was cake. And I walked out of that apartment still seething, but glowing with fabulousness.

15 years go by...

Second time. My sister's wedding. Manicure, pedicure, hairstyle shellacked and pinned and tucked and curled. I could have stabbed someone with that hair. Then, the makeup. “Dewey” was how it was sold to us, as being the hottest thing for brides and bridesmaids that season. Then, the dress, a goldy-beige satiny sheath, laced and beaded in all the right places, spaghetti straps glittering with glass, the skirt flaring below my knees in alternating panels of lace and satin. Matching stole. I summoned the spirit of Katherine Hepburn, and managed to be completely unrecognizable to my extended family. At least, for a while. I stood before two families for my sister, doing for her what I hadn't wanted and avoided for myself, and felt a quiet sense of transcendence. I was a mother, there was my daughter in her little comfy velveteen dress, bouncing in my husband's lap. I did not exactly feel like myself. More like I was looking out of a shell.

So perhaps, ultimately, that is what this longing is really about. Maybe my need for fabulousness is my need to defy my life, my patterns, my personality. Betrayal, exhaustion, insecurity and misery all fueled that first walk into goddess-hood, and even to an extent, the second walk. But it was equally inspired by creativity. A balance can undoubtedly be attained, but after thinking it over, I'm not sure a balance in this particular arena would be right for me. I have no desire to spend inordinate amounts of time applying makeup, taming my hair, and otherwise worrying over what outfit to wear to the park.

Lip-gloss, on the other hand, I can do.

There was, actually, one other time...I can't remember what I was wearing. I may or may not have been wearing makeup. But I remember walking, and feeling fabulous. I was strutting down 16^th Street in Philly for no reason I can remember, when a car slowed beside me and a college age boy and girl leaned out the window smiling in eagerness at me.

“Hey!” they called out in expectation “Are you somebody?”

I laughed and put an extra swing in my step.

“I was last time I checked!” I called over my shoulder with a broad grin.

*******************

*Yes, I changed his name...he is forgiven, as am I.
FYI:a little of the fabulousness of 15 years ago remains...my husband & I wear the wedding bands Henri David made for us.