Thursday, March 26, 2009
When I was 19, I just knew I’d be “discovered.” For what exactly I don’t know. Just “discovered” and somehow whisked away from a life that was beneath me: The working class. An oxymoron. There’s just something about being 19 years old, skinny, blond, and from California that makes girls think their entitled to free stuff. For instance, when I was busted for parking in a handicap space in front of the supermarket, I just had to go on a couple of dates with the cop and voila! No ticket. When my car broke down, I’d just pull into the service station and go on a cruise to the Bahamas with the owner and my car would be fixed.
In my daily commute to my law office job, I had to sit in traffic on the freeway for an hour each way. This provided an excellent opportunity for me to find my Prince or Sugar Daddy or Handler. I was already dressed-up with my hair all 1980’s large with my bright pink lipstick and earrings the size of garbage can lids. I’d have in my Pretenders tape on real loud so he’d notice me. I’d just roll along with my windows down and wait patiently for the magic day.
I thought I should be granted a free apartment in New York or Los Angeles where I’d get all the free clothes, booze, and drugs I wanted. It didn’t matter that my skills consisted of typing 75wpm and disco dancing. I visualized a black New Yorker limo pulling up beside me on the freeway with an important man inside. He’d say something like “It’s her! I’ve found her! I can’t let her get away after waiting my entire life to find her!” But naturally I couldn’t just leave my Toyota Corolla on the side of the freeway like that, so I took a picture of myself with my mom’s Polaroid instant camera and wrote my name and telephone number on the bottom. That way I could just pass my contact information out the window. Besides, that seemed classier.
It was at least ten years later that I came across the picture in my memory drawer. The telephone number was worn off the bottom and my picture had faded. I was impressed with my stupidity, but not my marketing skills.