Of late I have been noticing the socially incorrect elements of my personality. There are an overwhelming number of things that, try as I may, I am incapable of faking. So, in the spirit of honesty! (or, **"things that I have found it, up until this point, impossible to fake, or lie about"):
My room will never be clean. A clean bedroom has a shelf life of about 2.3 days for me. In which I am inspired to rehang all my clothes after I've tried them on and discarded them in the morning. 2.3 days that I'll make my bed or organize my side table. In which I'll fold my clothes before stuffing them back in the drawers (but the drawers will ALWAYS be closed-- open drawers being something I have been unable to abide since as an 8 year old my tall bureau, too many of the drawers left open, tipped over on top of me and the small TV on top hit me in the face, leaving 2 small knots--1 on my forehead and 1 on the bridge of my nose-- that have remained to this day.). I recently heard a radio interview with 23 year old Tony award winner John Gallagher, Jr. in which he admitted to having a messy room. It inspired me. I, too, will wear it as a badge of artistic honor.
I like white bread. I realize this is a completely inappropriate behavior from a young lady raised in the suburbs and educated at Middlebury College. No properly reared, affluent young white person with real aspirations would ever choose white over wheat when given the choice. And should probably even turn down a sandwich, wrap or pasta dish meal in general if white is the flour used. But wheat pasta makes me want to gag. And why eat flax pancakes when you can have delicious pancakes? I will concede that as far as sandwich bread goes, whole wheat sometimes tastes best. But you'll never find me eating a whole wheat bagel. My wheat will always be frosted and mini. This predilection for eating things that taste good to 9 year-olds extends beyond white pasta and white bread. I like my oatmeal in packets and full of brown sugar and vegetables are best soaked in gravy or sauteed.
I can't walk around in high heels. I can barely handle most cute flats: narrow toes, unsupportive arch. Yes, I realize I live in a city now. A professional city. In which, for the time being, I work in an office and commute with the suits and the stilettos. But you will not see me in heels taller than 1 inch. And my shoes will never be as shiny as everyone else's. Even if I bought them shiny, they undoubtedly lost that luster after 1 day with me. My shoes will be comfortable, size 11 friendly (that's right, I'm a drag queen), rubber-soled, practical and probably ugly. (Ugly, because it is a universally acknowledged fact that women with big feet actually would rather their shoes be uglier, less trendy and look like they belong to Cynthia Nixon's girlfriend.) Even if they did make giant sized cute shoes, I still could not wear them like all those beautiful and empowered business women you see on the metro, because I am at my most unpleasant when my feet hurt. I will wear my men's Asic tigers or my hot pink and grey suede diesels with my pantyhose and pencil skirt during the commute and change into my 3 inch heels for walking back and forth from the copier to my cubicle: 9142C. Disregard, for a moment, my plantar fasciatis-ridden left foot. I still wouldn't be rocking the stilettos. I'm just not that girl.
Love me, love my ugly shoes, delicious pasta and messy room.
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