If you saw me in the grocery store, you’d never know that I’m the salty voice of UntitledLife. I’d be standing in line with a cart full of diapers, frozen meals, milk, and tampons, trying to chat up the cashier so she wouldn’t notice that my $2 off Pampers Cruisers coupon is expired. I’d pick the longest line, so I could speed-read the gossip rags for free. At least one of the boxes of ready-to-eat food in my cart would already be opened, if not completely eaten (animal crackers, anyone?). Looking for distraction, I’d pick up a package of Slim Jims. Pushing the mystery meat from side to side within its slimey cocoon, I’d hypothesize what on god’s earth they’d injected the meat with to keep it from rotting. I’d peruse the new seasonal Bic lighter designs. “Hmmm, cherubs. How appropriate.”
My look would be painfully pedestrian. A stain on my shirt and god-knows-what on my glasses. Women like me, we don’t look good in anything too terribly hip. Lane Bryant might try to convince us thicker gals that yes, you CAN wear a halter top, thong, and low-rise jeans to the grocery store. But thankfully, I know better. I imagine some day, my son will look at me and be embarassed around his friends. “Gee, Mom. Why can’t you dress like so-and-so’s mom?” “Because I broke the acrylic slides on the stripper pole and my pasties are at the dry cleaners.” An old creative director of mine once said, “Forget about the Bauhaus nerds in the black turtlenecks and the little glasses. The best writers are the ones wearing polo shirts and jeans. They are the ones you’d least suspect.” For my sake, I hope he’s right.