I Wanna Be Slinky
First lets debunk the myth.
I do not know about the others but if I were caught lazing at home around the time I've just gotten out of bed, I'd be farthest from being photo op prepared. With short hair up on ends, glasses partially worn to sharpen uncontact-lensed myopia, groping in the dark, tripping on the dog, walking around barefeet with afghan blanket thrown over insufficient top and jammies. That and morning breath.
Whoever does perfume, silk lace teddies, languidly bed-head hair and readily kissable, must only be pretending to sleep.
I recall this vision from the 80s of Joan Collins in dynasty drag as the ultra scheming Alexis Carrington Colby. She, fully coiffed and made-up, with high heels and feather boa resting on the floor, plotting to throw the last lily on Krystle Carrington's coffin while soaked in her party-size jacuzzi and snacking on beluga roe and bubbly while at it. Alexis, Queen of the Zoolanderish 80s. Slinky.
I, having grown up of that era, thankfully carry over nothing of the stupefying excesses in attitude and consumption. That I tell you with a straight face, knowing that those who do not look back to history are bound to repeat it. Why, I do not own big hair pictures to show for it, thank God.
The lack of glamour and utter wallowing in my comfort mode may be okay for me, but then, sometimes I wonder, is it okay with my husband? Should he like to see me be transformed into this new creature -- slinky, Jessica Rabbitesque and such? You know, I really wouldn't know.
I've been intermittently thinking, since I was 18, to go on a deliberate makeover, just like Madonna does every three months, only for the heck of it. So far, I haven't stopped thinking. It may be fun, it's something new to do, and that does not seem to be enough reason for me to do it. I guess i'm really just this lazy woman.
I suppose every girl, at some point, has this slinky woman dreams, and I am no exception. But if that should require for me to retire my wrestling sneakers and my favorite jeans, forget it. I'd rather wallow in my comfort and be thankful that my husband isn't complaining. Slinky? No more slinky.
Filed Under: Randomly
I do not know about the others but if I were caught lazing at home around the time I've just gotten out of bed, I'd be farthest from being photo op prepared. With short hair up on ends, glasses partially worn to sharpen uncontact-lensed myopia, groping in the dark, tripping on the dog, walking around barefeet with afghan blanket thrown over insufficient top and jammies. That and morning breath.
Whoever does perfume, silk lace teddies, languidly bed-head hair and readily kissable, must only be pretending to sleep.
I recall this vision from the 80s of Joan Collins in dynasty drag as the ultra scheming Alexis Carrington Colby. She, fully coiffed and made-up, with high heels and feather boa resting on the floor, plotting to throw the last lily on Krystle Carrington's coffin while soaked in her party-size jacuzzi and snacking on beluga roe and bubbly while at it. Alexis, Queen of the Zoolanderish 80s. Slinky.
I, having grown up of that era, thankfully carry over nothing of the stupefying excesses in attitude and consumption. That I tell you with a straight face, knowing that those who do not look back to history are bound to repeat it. Why, I do not own big hair pictures to show for it, thank God.
The lack of glamour and utter wallowing in my comfort mode may be okay for me, but then, sometimes I wonder, is it okay with my husband? Should he like to see me be transformed into this new creature -- slinky, Jessica Rabbitesque and such? You know, I really wouldn't know.
I've been intermittently thinking, since I was 18, to go on a deliberate makeover, just like Madonna does every three months, only for the heck of it. So far, I haven't stopped thinking. It may be fun, it's something new to do, and that does not seem to be enough reason for me to do it. I guess i'm really just this lazy woman.
I suppose every girl, at some point, has this slinky woman dreams, and I am no exception. But if that should require for me to retire my wrestling sneakers and my favorite jeans, forget it. I'd rather wallow in my comfort and be thankful that my husband isn't complaining. Slinky? No more slinky.
Filed Under: Randomly
<< Home