Judithheartsong's Artsy Essay Contest beckons me. Like Russell Crowe
sitting outside my house on a yellow Fatboy with black leather seats
and the engine running.
One thing, huh? There are way more things I would rather you didn't know about me than anything I want you to know.
Perhaps that is the underlying
purpose of this month's essay contest. To see if I'm willing to
peel back the layers of my carefully constructed personna and reveal
myself in a manner still suitable for publication.
I find it interesting that
personality quirks I'm not proud of leap to mind immediately like
little kids who have the answer to the teacher's question -- PICK ME
PICK ME OH PLEASE OH PLEASE MRS. LINKLATER!!
Shut up. Sit down and be
quiet you noisy, noxious character flaws. Why would I want to pick
YOU to share with strangers? You creep me out.
Oh great, there's a crowd gathering in the corners of my mind.
For instance, I don't want people
to know I'm afraid of becoming a bag lady. Or that I keep a box of
Hefty Steel Saks in a secret place just in case the time comes. Bag
Lady anxiety is the fear of all women over fifty who live alone.
At least this one. The thought of sitting on a park bench with my shopping cart feeding the pigeons haunts me.
Unless I'm in London on tour. Oh, say, aren't you Mrs. Linklater of Mrs. Linklater's Guide to
the Universe? Weren't you nominated for a VIVI once?
I don't want anybody to know that
if my feet get any bigger I'll have to wear the boxes. Seriously, even though I'm almost six feet tall, I shouldn't have
to ask for a men's eleven when I shop for my Manolos. Is that fair?
I don't want to have to say "no" to
posing nude. Oh, so you think I get a pass now that I'm over sixty? Not
any more. That former supermodel Lauren Hutton has just revealed
EVERYTHING for some freaking magazine, with the disingenuous
disclaimer, "Oh, no, nothing was retouched." The bitch. She's 61 years
old, almost 62. Just like me on October 30th, thanks for asking.
wants that kind of pressure to prove you've still got it? When I
reached my well deserved menopause moment, I thought I could enjoy my
elastic waistband life without having to justify it. After all
there's a reason I stay in town for the winter here -- I can cover up
every saggy and wrinkled part of my body and pass for two, maybe three
years younger. But, in a bathing suit or [shudder] my birthday suit? Probably only a
or two. But now, Ms Hutton wants us to keep our "ho" jos working. I'd rather be sucking on a milkshake straw with a side
fries. Followed by a nap.
I don't want you to know how lazy
I've become. "I'll get to it" is my new mantra. Just let me watch Wheel
of Fortune first. [Kidding -- you have to be seventy] Okay, just let me
watch this re-run of Law and Order and I'll get to it.
I'm embarrassed that I listen to
WGN talk radio and not to a music station. The average listener
of that station is 107. And I actually like it so much I have
called in. It's the liking it that I don't want people to know about.
If someone gets in the car with me and it's on when I start the
engine, I tell them I only listen for the weather and the uh,
traffic. Yeah, the traffic.
I have also been known to put in a Metallica CD,
the Monster one, open the windows and turn up the volume on my way into
the parking lot, when I'm working downtown, in case I run into someone I
know. Boy, I didn't want you to know that.
I don't want anyone to know that I
smile a lot only so the wrinkles on my face go up instead of down.
I remember doing that so much when I was talking to a guy I just
met that he even commented on it. "You sure smile a lot."
There's more. But I have to
get downtown and take pictures of the statues with White Sox hats on
them. So I'll be back later. I'm not sure I want you to know
that. Ooops.Too late.