Friday, February 20, 2004

Hey Man, Beat It -- It's the Fuzz!
I think I might have caught my Blog Sister Marcia's cold via cyber-comments. Darn those pesky little rhino-virii. Head's fuzzy, and so's my knitting:

Bernat Boa -- Lashing Out With Eyelash Yarn

Lion Brand Fun Fur -- Unleash Your Inner Diva

Musings on Being Perfect
My sister and I grew up with vague feelings of anxiety and inferiority over what we perceived as "perfect" girls (now, women). You know the type: perfectly coifed and groomed hair that never went limp in summer humidity. Their Farrah Fawcett shag was always properly fluffed 'n highlighted. Dressed in edgy-yet-not-too-out-there clothes, accessorized just so, pantyhose or tights with nary a run or snag, the right purse, and good quality shoes with no scuffs. No chips in their nail polish; not a hangnail in sight. We would watch these girls (women) in the high school halls (office), breezing by in a cloud of Love's Baby Soft (Chanel No. 5), planning mid-winter ski trips with their sorority sisters. And when on said ski trip, these girls (women) never cracked a sweat. They glowed.

Meanwhile, there's me and sis on the sidelines. You can spot us: We're the ones with bitten fingernails, limp hair, runs in our pantyhose, and scuffed shoes. The wrong belt, paired with last season's handbag, bought on clearance. Mind you, we weren't jealous of these perfect girls (women). We were in silent awe of their ability to pull it together so completely. Hair, nails, accessories, lives. What was their secret? How did they do it?

After many years of trying to crack the code, sis and I gave up. We decided to turn it around and find strength in our fashion dorkiness. Jane coined the name of our species. She said, "Face it, Ame. We're … The Adjusters." In the naming, we took back our power. Yes, that girl running for the #19 bus, tugging on her falling bra strap and already sporting underarm sweat rings in the early morning August heat, is rife with hidden power. Running into the restroom to dab clear nail polish on the run in her tights, hoping it won't ziiiip below her hem, she rises above the fray. Smiling into the bathroom mirror, she sprays on more Aquanet hairspray to combat midafternoon hair droops. Giving a final tug (again) to that damn bra strap, she marches out into the world, imperfect but unbowed. She is … The Adjuster. And she's just as worthy as her more pulled-together sisters. --Dedicated with love to my little sister, my favorite Adjuster in the whole world

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