Monday, October 12, 2009

dating, style, men

“Some men recognize the light, but they can’t handle the glare.” Common

Um, I think there has been some kind of mistake. I was told this was happy hour. You know, cheap drinks, cheaper food, worker bees celebrating the end of the week?
Instead of getting loose over cocktails, at a waxing salon in Seattle it’s all about getting more than inhibitions removed. Instead of beer, the ladies (and a few men) line up for brazilians. Happy, my ass. I am laying here, way more exposed to the elements than any girl should be in front of a woman I have never met, trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea. Oh. Right. Sexier.
He told me I could be sexier. He, being the person I was confident thought I was sexy, or at least sexyish. I don’t know where I got that idea. It might be because he wasn’t just any man, he used to be my man. Silly me. I think he wanted me, he just wanted some altered version of me that doesn't exist. A version of me that would wear a g-string peaking out of my jeans as I leaned over the counter, tapping my acrylic French tips against the marble, daydreaming about finally making the switch from brunette to platinum.
The ironic part is that I am far from being low maintenance. I am slightly obsessed to beauty products and if I could, I would get a daily pedicure and manicure. I love the luxurious primping life, I just believe in real life. A real life that is comfort and function combined with a touch of timelessness. Coco Chanel said it best when she advised ladies to leave one accessory behind before they left the house. Less is more. The most stunning woman in the world doesn’t need hours; she looks good stepping out of the shower. Her radiance doesn’t come from anything she will find in her closet. The real me would rather spend time reading a good book or talking to an old friend then peering into a magnifying mirror armed with tweezers.
If only I was enlightened and empowered enough to say that this story ends with me waving my feminist flag proudly, silently vowing to continue racking up more hours volunteering and less in the salon chair.
But somewhere between the self-loathing of my past and the self-loving of my future, I found myself getting hair ripped out from very delicate skin, thinking he must be right and that I could, and should, put more effort into being sexy. It's possible it might be beneficial to rely less on yoga pants, hair ties and hoodies. Hence the waxing, tanning, blow drying circus that I have become.
Amelia tried to set me straight. “Think of it this way. Some men have more than enough money to shop at Nordstrom. They may even be sitting in the Nordstrom parking lot. They have Nordstrom right in front of them, and yet they choose to shop at Wal-Mart.
Well, hello, men everywhere. In honor of embracing the subtle sexiness that goes the distance, I'll let you in on a secret. I think it’s sexy when you:
  • Open your mind.
  • Drive with one arm draped on the back of my seat.
  • Squint your eyes, smirk and tilt your head to the side when I’ve crossed an imaginary line.
  • Help your mom with the dishes.
  • Tell the truth.
  • Make me laugh. While you make me dinner.
  • Hold a baby and look like a natural at it.
  • Find my feet with yours in the middle of the night just to let me know you are still there.
  • Face confrontation even though it scares the shit out of you.
  • Let me use your toothbrush.
  • Roll up the cuffs of your shirt and show off your forearms that promise to fix anything from my car to my dilemma.
  • Invite me to take an afternoon nap with you.
  • Ask me if I need anything before you sit back down on the couch.
  • Listen to me in quiet amusement after I have asked you question and, without waiting, answer it myself out loud and at length.
  • Let me read for hours.
  • Patiently wait for me, whether it is for me to get ready, say my goodbyes at a party, or just grow up.
  • Make my brain hurt more and my heart hurt less.
  • Wait five seconds and think about my feelings before you say something.
  • Finish what you start.
This isn't about me being sexy or not, it's about me being different. No amount of time in the tanning bed is going to change that. My kind of sexy doesn't change when I put sweats on. My sexy is as unique as I am. Down the road, whoever he is, will do the sexiest thing of all: make me feel sexy. Now that is a happy hour I will get behind.