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October 24, 2004

Up In The Air

Lani, about to get on a plane, nervous as hell...

Well, I'm on my way. Almost. If anyone here is in Portland or Seattle, check out my webpage and stop on in and see me for one of the events!

What is it about planes that terrify me so? Perhaps it's that, despite the fact that they are statistically the safest form of travel, every air incident from serious turbulence to crash-boom-bang gets so much media coverage you could raise a child from baby to college before they're done talking about it? Perhaps it's those tiny little aisles and those tiny little seats that create a sense of being packed in like cattle for the slaughter? Perhaps it's the inherent hostility in the flight attendants, and the scary makeup shield/botox-induced expression inhibition that's so creepy?

I don't know. Possibly, just possibly, the problem might be my inherent psychosis. But why look inward when it's so much more comfortable to look outward? I mean, really? Why?

So, I had all kinds of cute ideas for today's entry, but decided to write it today when all I can think about is the plane going down, down, down and now I'm all out of funny juice.

I. Got. Nothin'.

So, in the blogging tradition of referencing blogs past when You Got Nothin', I'm gonna give you something I wrote in July of 2003, before attending my first ever RWA national conference. This is the reason why, despite the multiple public appearances I'm going to be making on this trip, including a television appearance, my nails will be as pitiful as they ever are.

Enjoy! Light a candle so that my plane doesn't crash and/or so that I suddenly gain the mental capacity to travel in the safest known manner without freaking out the whole time. Thanks!

My First Manicure

Sounds like a playset for little girls, doesn't it? I'd be surprised if there wasn't something like it on the market. But no, this was a real, adult manicure in a real, adult world.

See, I'm not the girly type. I'm not remotely fashionable. I like a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt anyday. But I'm going to NY (T-minus two days) and I thought I should get my nails done. And, as I am not typically girly and not typically adept at this sort of thing, and since God has a terrific sense of humor, He sent me directly to Jennifer.

Jennifer... hmmm. I'm not sure where to start. I think I have to start with the hostile rolling of eyes at the receptionist who brought me over, a receptionist who was sweet and smiling and just adorable. I didn't take this as a good sign.

Then, Jennifer and I sit down. She starts working on my nails. She asks what conference I'm going to. I say a writer's conference.

Big mistake. Should have told her I was a potato farmer.

"Will you write my biography?"

I laugh. She doesn't. Oh, God.

She starts filing my nails. I'm worried. "I think someone needs to write a book about a fat woman who can't get a job because she's fat."

I look at the ceiling. Jennifer is easily 300 pounds. Which is fine. I'm a little worried because her nails are haggard and chomped to the quick, but it's like that old adage about choosing the hairdresser whose hair is bad, because it means that the other one did her hair. That doesn't make sense, but you know what I'm talking about.

I'm grasping at straws. I try to change the subject.

"So, have you been doing nails long?"

She shrugs. "Three weeks."

Ahhhh. I relax. I realize I've just pissed $35 away and there's really nothing to be done about it, so why not take the experience for what it's worth? We start to chat. She insists again that I write a book about a fat woman who can't get a job. She tells me that she pretty much had a receptionist job over the phone, but when she showed up in person, they told her it was filled.

I nod. I smile. I try to be accommodating, but I don't know anyone who has ever hired over the phone. Maybe she had a good shot over the phone, but if they didn't say "You're hired" which they didn't then she wasn't. But still. She's got my nails in her hands. I am sympathetic.

And then she tells me about being a PE teacher, and how she lost her job as a PE teacher because the male PE teacher felt that a PE teacher shouldn't weigh 300 pounds. I express no opinion on the subject, because really, if she could do the job then what does it matter? I hum noncommittally and before I can respond, I see her yelling at a woman who just sat down with another manicurist to have her nails done.

"Don't think I don't see you, Debbie! Be careful, I might take that personally!"

Debbie turns and makes excuses. "You were busy!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Jennifer returns her attention to my nails, for which I am grateful, because at the moment she's scraping the surface in such a way that's making my teeth stand on edge, and I really want her careful attention lest I go home with nine nails instead of ten. She looks up at me, and I see a smile. At least it's what I suspect Jennifer thinks is a smile. It comes across as a half-grimace.

"That's my boss. She's great."

Ahhh. I have not the slightest doubt in my head that Debbie waited for me to sit down before getting her manicure.

The horrid scraping is done, and the primping begins. I soak, like Madge. Jennifer harasses Debbie a little more. I'm grateful for the break. Jennifer returns and starts rubbing my hands, insisting that I'm a hair's breadth away from carpal tunnel syndrome. If this were true, I'd hardly be surprised by the news, but given Jennifer's general disposition, my jury's still out. I have a feeling that in Jennifer's world everyone is a hair's breadth away from some horrid fate.

She asks me what I want. I say a French manicure. She says everyone has a French manicure and begins looking through her plastic bin of colors. She pulls out pearlescents, and pinks, and tawny mauves. I say that I really need something to go with everything I'm wearing, which is quite a variety. I have a navy blue outfit, a royal purple, a beige...

"Beige!" she screams. "You're a winter!"

I'm a little startled. Jennifer's hair is pulled back in a hasty barrette. No makeup. No manicure of her own. She's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of Wal-mart quality aqua blue Capri's with a white flower print. All of this is fine by me; I was relieved when I saw her. I'm not comfortable around people whose appearance is always flawless; I'm a hasty barrette type myself. I had relaxed assuming I would not be hearing words like "You're a winter!"

I had been mistaken.

Jennifer huffs at me. "How do you wear beige?"

I smile, but I can feel that my face is tight. "I put it on and leave the house."

She rolls her eyes. "No, I mean, aren't you all washed out?"

I shrug. I don't really care much about that stuff. Obviously. This is my first manicure. Likely my last.

Jennifer again turns to her biography. She is in earnest. I stumble. "I'm a fiction writer," I say.

"I guess I could write it," she says. "But then it would be an autobiography, right?"

I nod. I ask about her life, wondering if there's anything to the biography thing. There isn't. She grew up in Oregon, had a baby at 22, and moved to Alaska at 29. She wants to build a cabin outside of Big Lake, away from people. Aside from the possible line about fat discrimination, there's nothing extraordinary about her story, especially not in Alaska. It's not surprising the number of people who come to Alaska because they don't like people.

After rejecting all the horrid colors she suggests, we are doing a French manicure. I discover why she didn't want to do it.

"I'm not very good at this," she says, as she moves from one lumpy white tip to the next. She does not, however, apologize. It's my fault. I insisted on the French.

I am surprised. Not by her, but by myself. Typically, I am annoyed by angry, whiny people who believe the world owes them something because they're here. I have little patience for sulking, and by the time I cross Jennifer's path, she's well on her way to being a lifetime member of Sulkers 'R Us. Nothing in her life is good. Nothing is right. I tell her her daughter, of whom she has a picture on the table, is pretty and she shrugs. I say it must be nice to work there, since she seems to like her boss so much, and she shrugs. I point to the bright side; she shirks a shoulder and shields her eyes.

I give up and remain silent for much of the rest of the manicure. But still, I'm not annoyed. I'm not bothered that my first manicure, days before a conference, is going very, very poorly. I'm not bothered that she's angry. I'm not bothered that she's rude to others. For some reason, I'm sad for her. I'm sad that she's living a life where all she sees is the bad stuff. I'm sad that, for whatever reason, whether it's her own fault or that of others, she's so bitter that there's no joy in life at 35. I'm grateful that I didn't go the same road. I'm grateful that I have joy, so much of it I can hardly believe it. You can attribute this to my choices versus her choices, and to an extent that's true, but I also know that I've been very lucky, and I believe that much of the space in that gulf between us is there because of the grace of God.

The lovely receptionist rings up my charges. I tip well for my flawed manicure.

As the day progresses, the manicure grows on me, with all its uneven patches, with all the lumpy white at the tips. I find I like flaws, I enjoy them. They are interesting. They are complex. To be perfect is to be assimilated; to be imperfect is to be unusual. A flawed manicure says about me exactly what I want it to say; that my priorities are not tied up in how I appear.

It could also be argued that a flawed manicure says I'm simply too addled to realize it's bad. Since this is not altogether an unfair assessment of my character, I accept it. It's worth it to maintain my flaws. After all, if Jennifer had been stick thin with glorious hair and beautiful nails, I would have probably forgotten her name by now.

Posted by Lani at 10:38 AM