Eat the Damn Cake

I don’t mean it like that. Although once, it’s true, I was part of a love triangle of sorts. But that’s a story for another time.

Here’s what I mean:

I was walking to a doctor’s appointment by Lincoln Center, through epic amounts of slush. I was realizing that I do not have any boots that are suitable for winter. And then remembering that I’d realized this last winter. I tried to remember why I hadn’t done anything about it, and could vaguely recollect that it’s really hard to find women’s boots that are good in snow, slush, rain, and the freezing cold, mostly because they don’t look the least bit sexy, and Manhattan shoe stores don’t seem interested in selling non-sexy products. I was speculating that Lands’ End probably had something, when the light changed and I had to jump over a puddle the size of a small, luxury swimming pool (with a vanishing edge), and nearly collided with a woman ahead of me. She had long, sleek dark hair, a big puffy coat, and sexy boots. I couldn’t see her face.

(I was right! source)

I crossed the street just behind her and we turned the same way on the corner. I walked behind her for two blocks, and just as she was turning to enter one of the overpriced restaurants across from the performing arts complex, a group of guys came towards us. The one in the front of pack spotted her immediately and stopped in his tracks. He elbowed his friend, pointing at her with his head. The friend turned to look and stopped, too. There was a small pile-up, which I had to step gingerly around. The dark-haired girl, appearing not to notice (though probably thinking to herself, “Give me a break”), disappeared into the restaurant, and I, invisible, disappeared down the block.

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I’ve been thinking about houses a lot. Not because I’m in the market for one. Mostly because I’m not.

It seems like marriage and houses go together for a lot of people. You get married, you invest in your first house. It has a yard. You don’t know anyone in the neighborhood yet, but you trust that one day you’ll all be over each other’s houses sipping wine and sharing cute stories about your children’s involvement in various miniature sports.

Of course, the economy has made it pretty difficult for young newlyweds to invest in much of anything. But people still make it happen. They save up and they get a house.

I grew up in suburbia. It felt normal, because I was growing up there. It took 30 minutes to drive anywhere. We shopped at the mall. There were a lot of parking lots.

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A few weeks ago, my mom went shopping for a Christmas gift for a very young cousin of mine. This cousin is very fond of dolls, so my mom set out on what should have been a completely unremarkable, straightforward mission.

It started out that way. She had only to drive to the nearest Toys “R” Us and follow the hot pink glow to its source.

But when she arrived at the doll aisle, she was disturbed by what she found.

“Do you know what dolls look like?” she asked me, the next day.

“Um,” I said. “Is this a trick question?”

“Do you remember what they look like?” We hadn’t spent time in the doll section since I was ten or so.

“OK,” I said, playing along, “There are two basic types: baby and Barbie.”

“And their hair?”

“Blond.”

“Yes! It’s ALL blond!”

(source)

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This is a guest post. Liz is the first friend I made through blogging, back when Cake and Plus-Size Models Unite were both brand new tiny baby blogs. I wrote something about what she had written, and she wrote back to tell me very nicely that I was really wrong. I liked her immediately.

Liz Nord earned a Communications degree from Central Washington University, and completed graduate editing courses at the University of Washington. She is the writer and editor for Plus-Sized Models Unite, which has over 130,000 readers. Liz has published articles in a number of magazines, newspapers, and on numerous websites, most recently www.BellaMUMMA.com, www.bodymindsol.com, and www.solwalkling.com. She has been a guest on the Leeza Gibbons talk show, Hollywood Confidential, and serves on the Editing Certificate Advisory Board at the University of Washington. She is currently developing a parenting website for women who want to get the real scoop on parenting.

(She eats cupcakes)

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I usually assume I’m the one who is failing a little. Like at wearing those particular gigantic earrings with that particular purple spotted dress. And at conversation. I’m probably the one who isn’t quite quick enough, or is a little too eager; just the slightest bit miscalibrated. In Manhattan, I’m the one who is always missing the trend by a hair (or every single hair). Oh, we’re wearing jumpsuits now. Wait– we aren’t anymore? But I got this purple spotted one for 80% off! It’s true, I always get the cheap version. I’m not willing to commit completely. I don’t have faith in fashion the way so many people seem to.

I read about faces. About the ones that men prefer most. The ones that babies prefer most. The ones that both men and babies rate the highest, while having a beer. There’s all this information about averages. People gravitate towards the generic. Those even, flat features composited from a hundred thousand other sets of features on a computer in a lab where sex scientists stare at screens with faces on them all day (feeling worse and worse about the way they look), those are the ones people on the street choose, when they’re handed the leaflets and asked to identify beauty.

I have a face that refuses to be average. It refuses to be dull. It runs yelling in the opposite direction. It’s yelling, “I’m free! I’m free!” It’s delusional. It doesn’t fit in.

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I went on a date the other day. I changed my outfit a few times before I settled on something that was cute, creative, seasonally appropriate but still sleek, and stylish without being generically fashionable. It had to look thrown together without being sloppy, involve a cool necklace, feature boots, hide all of my flaws and emphasize all of my most attractive characteristics. It had to make people think, “That girl is awesome,” without even realizing why they were thinking that.

Getting ready for my first date with Bear took about ten minutes. But that’s because he’s a guy.

As expected, she is wearing a perfect outfit. With a silvery white cotton scarf, a chunky, worn leather belt,  and riding boots. She is prettier than the photos of her online. Thick, lustrous dark hair with a quirky little elfin braid on one side, a sudden, big smile.  She is clearly confident.

(nice. source)

I trip over my words, trying to say hi and then something funny in quick succession.

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