I WAS running the other day, wearing a wifebeater and Old Navy knockoffs of Lululemon capris, soaked in unearned perspiration. And this Orthodox Jewgirl is walking toward me. (Her Orthodox Jewgirl status was made conveniently evident by both her attire and the fact that she was heading right for a synagogue.) As she got closer, I realized that not only was she averting her gaze from the impurity that was sweaty, meagerly-clothed Me, she was actually shielding her eyes with her hand! Lest the sin corrupt her holy soul.
It didn't help my case in the courtroom of my self-loathing mind that I was, at that moment, listening to Pitbull, he who says things like:
I party like a rockstar
Look like a movie star
Play like an all-star
Fuck like a porn star
IN RECENT YEARS I have tried to trod a path of embracing whatever personal hotness I may possess, having prior pursued a path of sweats and misery. And shouldn't it be thus? For surely the world is better when we're all doing our best selves. In looks, and all things.
The danger of course is that hotness suggests a dearth of other qualities. It somehow signals that one cannot be, for example, serious or tender-hearted. This is true for women, especially. I'd venture to say, too, that to look good in a certain way--non-dainty, and without Tina Fey glasses--is particularly damning. Genetic fate decreed the variety of attractiveness available to me to be (in Mad Men terms) less pretty Peggy, more jiggly Joan. With implications.
Hotness also connotes invincibility. Which can be a useful trick.
I HOPE I sound smart, and that if I sound smart you won't suppose I look bad. And I further hope that if you believe I look good, after a jiggly fashion, you won't disbelieve me a decent person.
I never knew why I didn't have access to interoffice IM (everybody else did) and now I don't know why I do. My work chum Miss SHao speculates that the IT guy likes to play God. Steve giveth and Steve taketh away.Miss SHao and I were talking, like literal in-person style. But when I told her I (finally) had Messenger, she scurried back to her desk so we could IM. And it was SO MUCH MORE FUN 
When I need to talk to the homies Back East, I don't want to *call* them. I prefer to schedule a heart-to-heart G-chat date. And sometimes, if I log on Gmail at just the right time, there is a little green dot next to the name of my sister in Tel Aviv. And when words from her pop up on the screen--about everyday things, her husband walking in the door--I flip out.
Why is that so amazing to me? The technology has existed for ages that would allow me to hear her voice.
Does the charm lie in the comfortably casual nature of the instant message? The fact that it employs written words, which are my favorite kind? The balance it strikes between intimacy and remove? Because talking on the phone can make me nervous. (Why do you work as a receptionist then? Huh. Good question.)Maybe it's just an extra-fun medium, combining speech-like rapidity and use of the written word; it rewards cleverness (and I like to think that I'm clev-aaah, like Badu.) And you can abruptly say a link, like, http://www.mypetchicken.com/catalog/Day-Old-Baby-Chicks/Wyandotte-Standard-Silver-Laced-p235.aspx. Which you can't do in talking life.
Why am I so weird that I stopped thinking about Mr. Forty-Fourth President Barack Obama for like eight months? Why do I do that?
The election was so overwhelming that truly I had to return to my own life once it was over. And then too the country was such a mess. I wanted to let him clean up whilst I took the liberty of looking away from the icky scrubdown process. Now things are tidied enough that I can stand to pay attention.
I expected that after the inauguration I would wake up each morning with a song in my heart and continuous CSPAN on my TV. But I never did watch CSPAN, not until recently, when I flipped to what turned out to be that town hall about health care, the unfortunate one in Colorado, when he started hedging on the public option.
This ought to have been a particularly painful viewing experience for me, because when it comes to this shit, I am finally one of what Chris Matthews calls 'people with needs.' As in, I need health care. I work part time and don't get health insurance. (Plog ≠ work.) So, you know, I actually personally need a public option.
And yet: I can't stay mad at him. No, scratch that. I can't even so much as get mad at him for one second. I'm not one of those practical lefty people who get all *disappointed* when he lets the climate change bill get watered down. Because he is so much a personal hero, and I am such a dork. All I can do is listen in rapt admiration when he speaks, savoring that favorite debunking construction of his: the notion that somehow. When he breaks that out, you know it's time to gleefully tear down some criticism or other.
As:
"The notion that somehow just by having a public option you have the entire private marketplace destroyed is just not borne out by the facts."
Or the oldie but favoritie:"The notion that somehow not talking to countries is punishment to them -- which has been the guiding diplomatic principle of this administration -- is ridiculous."
Lord knows there need to be people riding his ass about everything he's doing wrong. It's just not gonna be me. I'm about the unconditional presidential love.
