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| Photo by Matheus Lopes |
There are certain adjectives that have never, in my recollection, been used to describe me. Sadly, "quiet" is one of them. (Perhaps someday...) Other terms include words such as "Refined", "Elegant", "Sophisticated", "Petite" or "Delicate".
Although I must admit, I campaigned pretty heavily for "petite" many years ago. It was sometime around 6th grade, and my bestie Tami Mitsunaga and I were shopping downtown. At that time, I was tall, blonde, gangly, awkward, and skinny - all elbows and knees. (As opposed to now, when I am tall, brunette (shoutout to my hairstylist), awkward, and overweight - all tummy and thick-waisted.) Tami was short, "delicate", and graceful, a gymnast, with shiny long black hair. No one ever mistook us for sisters. But on that day we decided that Twinning is Winning, and what better way to prove it than to get matching t-shirts. We looked through the store's supply of Air Supply and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club t-shirts, and after quite a bit of searching, found a shirt in both of our sizes that had a sparkly plastic iron-on that read, "Petite Is Pretty!" in fancy script. When Tami, then (and still now) the more logical of the pair, pointed out that "petite" means short, and that term didn't really apply to me, I countered with the fact that according to my (own made-up) dictionary, "petite" could also mean skinny, and so it actually did apply to us both. When her mom Helen picked us up, and saw the shirts we proudly showed her, she also politely noted that "petite" didn't really pertain to me. And so it went. For the next year or so, whenever I wore the shirt, I had to patiently explain my personal definition of "petite" to people, who always seemed puzzled at the messaging. After awhile, it got old, but by that time the iron-on label was cracked and coming off, and it was just easier to abandon both the shirt and the effort to convince the world I was indeed "petite".
As mentioned, "elegant" is another term that never seems to be paired with my name. At 55 years of age, I still can't seem to eat without spilling. I rarely make it through the day without a few stains on my shirt. The struggle is real.
Furthermore, I am That Person, walking around, grinning widely, with a stray piece of cilantro or large black poppyseed wedged in my teeth.
One memorable eating disaster happened many years ago. I was 21 or 22, working at Scopes Garcia Carlisle ad agency. Some reps from a local tv channel kept inviting me to lunch, because I was an account executive for the 10-state Coca Cola division. They had not yet realized that I had absolutely no influence over our ad buy. So they kept inviting me, and finally I said I'd go. I was young and green and felt a little bit nervous. I didn't know these men very well.
For background, you should know that it is decreed in the world of advertising that media reps are required to be Cool Kids. They are generally Beautiful People who dress stylishly, wear the right brands, drive the right cars, and always seem to have access to a box at the next NBA game. I guess the message is, "Hey, I'm a cool kid, and I want to be friends with you! We're besties, right? Maybe we should get matching t-shirts? And by the way, why don't you spend money... lots of it... with my company?"
So two media reps picked me up at my downtown office and we drove in their convertible, with the top down, to a hip new restaurant (Did I just age myself by using the term "hip"?... I think I did.) The restaurant was Mexican. And it was where all the Cool Kids ate.
The meal was going fine, and we were making small talk, interspersed with casual anecdotes about why Their Channel Was The Smartest One To Advertise With, when all of a sudden, these two men's expressions instantly changed. I saw it happen immediately. It was sort of a mix of horror and disgust and I'm-trying-not-to-bust-up-laughing. The change on their faces was so dramatic, I knew right away that something was wrong. And that it had to do with me.
It stopped the conversation. I immediately asked, "What's wrong?"
They looked at each other. Then they looked at me. Then they looked at each other.
"What's the matter?" I asked again.
"Well, yhgmmms commmsf fdddd." one of them mumbled down to the napkin in his lap.
I squinted, puzzled. "What?"
He mumbled something incoherent again, and his friend snorted.
"I'm sorry," I said politely, "I didn't quite catch that."
"YOU HAVE SOUR CREAM." He burst out. "RIGHT HERE" and he jabbed a finger at his forehead.
Apparently I had been enjoying my fajita a bit too much, and a large blob of sour cream had attached itself, front and center, on my forehead.
I quickly swiped it off, then giggled.
Silence. Then a throat clear. Then an awkward change of subject.
Now I speak with some authority (and a great deal of experience) when I say that it's one thing to have something embarrassing happen. But it's another thing when people do not laugh WITH you at the hilarity of the situation. Because if they are not laughing WITH you, they are generally laughing AT you. And there's a big difference.
The rest of the meal was brutal, because these two men were trying to hold back their laughter the entire time. They'd catch one another's eye, and then suddenly have to cough into their napkin. And those coughs sounded suspiciously a lot like guffaws.
I have absolutely no doubt that after they dropped me off and waited for me to walk into the office door, they wet their pants laughing over The Girl With Sour Cream On Her Forehead.
We did not spend our entire ad buy on their channel. And they never invited me to lunch again.
In another notable incident, years later, Chad and I went to a wedding reception. It was an outdoor reception, with a large chocolate fountain. This was before chocolate fountains started appearing at every neighborhood gathering, Girls' Night Out, or party introducing your friends to an exciting new MLM opportunity.
This was also before I realized that chocolate fountains + Christy = disaster. Every Time.
So at this reception I naively enjoyed several fountain dipped goodies. Then Chad and I stood around and chatted with friends, neighbors, people we knew from church, people we knew from our kids' schools and sports teams, people we knew from the community, people we thought we knew but couldn't place who they were or what our connection might be. Basically, we chatted with the entire county.
When we got in our car, my dear husband casually mentioned, "Hey, by the way, you have chocolate all over your face."
What?
Sure enough, a quick look in the visor mirror showed me looking like a 4-year old at a birthday party, post-cake & ice cream. The amount of chocolate on my face was stunning. And even more so, that I hadn't felt it or sensed it and that NONE of the 300 people I had chatted with had thought to say, "Hey, speaking of the weather, did you know you have chocolate on your face?" or "That is a fascinating story. Which reminds me - you happen to be wearing chocolate. A lot of it". Or even "How are you, and by the way, when's the last time you checked a mirror? Or washed your face?"
"WHY DIDN"T YOU TELL ME SOONER?" I demanded to my husband, doing the same lick-the-finger-and-scrub action on my face that I would later perfect with my children.
He shrugged. "You were talking."
Note to The Universe: If you ever see me with chocolate on my face, sour cream on my forehead, cilantro in my teeth, wearing an inexplicable T-shirt, or two different shoes, or my clothes inside out, I'm begging you - please tell me. Even if I'm talking.
Then laugh with me. Because it just gets real awkward when you don't.
Even better, laugh with me, and then tell me I'm Elegant and Petite.
Just for fun.
