Of Vikings and Tumors
I am going to admit something I've held inside for a good number of years, but was probably obvious anyway: I am completely and utterly obsessed with my appearance.
Now, to clarify, I don't mean I am obsessed in a way that manifests eating disorders, an addiction to plastic surgey or other obsessive malaise. No. I also don't mean that I spend my lunch hours at the Estee Lauder counter at Macy's (although I don't think I'd mind the sort of lifestyle that would enable me to do so, as it would most likely mean I would be able to afford a small menagerie of animals, which I am definitely not opposed to).
But if, say, someone I barely knew had a problem with me, I'd more or less blame it on my looks. A screaming example of this happened earlier this week. Here is what happened:
I had been minding my own business at the train station--no, I also don't spend my leisure time hopping on boxcars with my hobo friends, in fact, I commute to my daytime engagements via the Orient Express, also known as the New Jersey Transit Northeast Corridor (express) line--cradling the September issue of Vogue, which is no small task as it weighs in at around 5 pounds. It was around 9:30 in the morning, which I consider the middle of the night, and I certainly looked the part, with a mass of toussled hair and very large sunglasses. Normally, I do not like to pollute the air with such an unkempt appearance, but today was an exception.
As I gazed through my Jackie O.'s, towards the large destination board, trying to calculate if I should be Fashionably Late or Rudely Late to my daytime engagements, I noticed a gentleman walking in my general direction. He was on the tall side, and rather thin, but was working a look that I'd like to think of as "Viking-Hipster Chic" meaning that he had an arresting red beard, extraordinarily thin physique, Helmut Lang-esque black outfit and purposely unmatching but still trendy brown shoes. He was a wee bit elderly, meaning that he probably just turned 30 (oh darling, in that Helmut Lang crowd, 30 is really over the hill, even a fresh lass like myself is almost considered middle-aged), and was balding.
As he walked towards me, I imagined what his life must be like. In my imaginary world, he lived in a modernist loft with lots of ladders leading to nowhere and kept his identical black garments in an egg-shaped pod of efficiency. In real life, he probably lived in gentrified Brooklyn and read McSweeney's, but the imagined life was much more interesting and appropriate for his attire.
I was just about to award him a manservant with a bowl cut when my revelrie was interrupted by Mr. Viking Chic himself.
He asked me if we were waiting for the proper train, which I confirmed so, and made some sort of observation regarding how late it was running, so he could determine if he was on the verge of being Fashionably Late to his Viking-Chic engagements. The conversation, I thought, would naturally end there, as they normally do.
So I was very taken aback when he pressed me for more information.
First, he made his own observations about my reading material's weight, how getting to the table of contents involved wading through 120 pages of advertisements. I was mildly offended, mostly because I have an unrequited love for Vogue magazine (even if they, too, would consider me middle aged), but then remembered that telling people you read Vogue for the articles is a lot like telling people you read Playboy for the articles and would most likely would earn you an unflattering label.
So I just politely laughed, like you do when your teacher makes a dorky joke.
"So, where are you heading?" The Viking Prince asked.
I told him, which lead to more questions.
"Why are you heading there?" He asked.
Since I borrow my grandmother's jewels and furs (when appropriate) to wear around town, or because I never pepper my conversation with the phrase "I was at the club last week..." or "You'll never guess who I hooked up with yesterday..." people tend to overestimate my age. So when I tell perfect strangers that I have a class to attend, I am required to explain myself, or say something to diffuse their disappointment.
And when you tell people you're still in what you consider day care (with sadder crayons), you have to answer the inevitable question:
"And what do you plan on doing when you get out of there?"
In short, I told him that I planned to run off to New York, specifically, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I would camp out at the Temple of Dendur from now to eternity, periodically sustaining myself with hors d'oeuvres pilfered from event trays. It would be a lonely life, but I'd manage, and perhaps engage in madcap adventures along the way.
My Nordic Friend remarked that I could perhaps land a handsome deal with PBS if I marketed my adventures as a sort of travel documentary, and if I ever needed a strong cameraman, "You know who to call."
"I could also fight off any tourists who got any ideas..." He said.
On that creepy note, the train pulled in to the station. I found my seat, as did he: in the seat across the aisle from me. It was safe to assume that he would want to continue our exchange, as I did not visibly recoil when he offered his camera-toting and tourist-scaring services, since he sat so conspicuously near me, on this empty train car.
So it was surprising when our ride was characterized not by interesting exchanges, but with cold, harsh silence.
Here is where things got creepily paranoid on my part, with regards to my appearance: I couldn't help but notice that he had stopped talking to me once we sat down, which was at the same moment when I took off my sunglasses. Sunglasses usually don't make a bit of difference unless you have a severe disfiguration, but like I said, I was feeling a bit rough at 9:30 am.
What cemented my paranoia was not the conspicuous silence, but also the odd way he'd stare at me every 30 seconds. I recognized this stare, as I usually employed it when I found someone with a very remarkable (read: unusual) appearance. When taking off my sunglasses, did I disrupt the interior life he had fashioned for me, as I had for him?
I also couldn't help but think that perhaps I was growing some sort of eye tumor that I didn't know about. The previous night, I was up late, glued to a television show called "The Woman Whose Face Blew Up." Contrary to my initial thought, this didn't involve spontaneous explosion, per say. But one day, this nice, charming, former beauty queen just woke up with a face full of blueberry-sized tumors. As is the case with such alarming incidents, no one knew what caused her to break out, or how to fix her.
Instead of sulking about it, this lady ended up fashioning a vibrant life in the English countryside, by surrounding herself with beings that would never ever judge her. Which happened to be a stunning array of llamas. She's around 80 now, and seems to be satisfied with the way things turned out, or would be if the interviewer hadn't asked her questions like:
"So you were a former beauty queen. How did you feel when you woke up horribly disfigured, eventually scaring off your handsome, rich fiancee and alienating your family?"
As the Viking kept staring and not talking, I couldn't help but feel the tiniest tumors begin to take over my face. By the time my station stop rolled around, I'd be rendered unrecognizable and have to board the next bus to a llama farm and gather a variety of blunt objects, just in case an insensitive journalist asked me such an offensive question.
When my stop rolled around, my train companion wordlessly regarded me as I walked up to the doors and out of his life forever. I consulted a mirror shortly afterwards, to see what was consuming my flesh, to find nothing there but the faintest shimmer of eyeshadow from the night before. Of course, I didn't want a disfiguring face tumor, but at the very least it would explain things if a social exchange went awry. I'd have a built-in excuse to cushion me against perceived rejections.
I would be able to say things like:
"Oh, I'm sorry that I didn't do so well during my employee review. Maybe my horrible and tragic disfigurement kept me from properly seeing my computer screen!"
"You never want to see me again? Well, neither do I--oh wait, I never could in the first place because I HAVE A DISFIGUREMENT that keeps me from seeing properly anyway!"
"You had a hard day at work? Well, I'm disfigured!"
Instead of disfigurements, I have a steady stream of Awful Memories to keep the rejections easier to swallow. Nothing too dramatic, of course, but I was never too popular with my peers until I reached college. Whether I was ugly or not remains unknown, but I'd prefer to think it was that instead of something virtually unchangeable, like an unattractive personality. But I might as well be disfigured, with the sort of illogical assumptions regarding my attractiveness, or lackthereof, in my head.
I'll never know what happened with the Viking Man and his appraisal of my appearance, but someday, I might be able to take off my sunglasses without feeling like I've disappointed the entire room. Until then, there's always the Temple of Dendur, I suppose.
*This doesn't mean I want to be disfigured, in the least bit, and my heart goes out to those who are. If it were up to me, those people would be able to get all the llama farms they wanted, for free, and be allowed to bludgeon any meddling journalist they wanted to, without punishment.
Now, to clarify, I don't mean I am obsessed in a way that manifests eating disorders, an addiction to plastic surgey or other obsessive malaise. No. I also don't mean that I spend my lunch hours at the Estee Lauder counter at Macy's (although I don't think I'd mind the sort of lifestyle that would enable me to do so, as it would most likely mean I would be able to afford a small menagerie of animals, which I am definitely not opposed to).
But if, say, someone I barely knew had a problem with me, I'd more or less blame it on my looks. A screaming example of this happened earlier this week. Here is what happened:
I had been minding my own business at the train station--no, I also don't spend my leisure time hopping on boxcars with my hobo friends, in fact, I commute to my daytime engagements via the Orient Express, also known as the New Jersey Transit Northeast Corridor (express) line--cradling the September issue of Vogue, which is no small task as it weighs in at around 5 pounds. It was around 9:30 in the morning, which I consider the middle of the night, and I certainly looked the part, with a mass of toussled hair and very large sunglasses. Normally, I do not like to pollute the air with such an unkempt appearance, but today was an exception.
As I gazed through my Jackie O.'s, towards the large destination board, trying to calculate if I should be Fashionably Late or Rudely Late to my daytime engagements, I noticed a gentleman walking in my general direction. He was on the tall side, and rather thin, but was working a look that I'd like to think of as "Viking-Hipster Chic" meaning that he had an arresting red beard, extraordinarily thin physique, Helmut Lang-esque black outfit and purposely unmatching but still trendy brown shoes. He was a wee bit elderly, meaning that he probably just turned 30 (oh darling, in that Helmut Lang crowd, 30 is really over the hill, even a fresh lass like myself is almost considered middle-aged), and was balding.
As he walked towards me, I imagined what his life must be like. In my imaginary world, he lived in a modernist loft with lots of ladders leading to nowhere and kept his identical black garments in an egg-shaped pod of efficiency. In real life, he probably lived in gentrified Brooklyn and read McSweeney's, but the imagined life was much more interesting and appropriate for his attire.
I was just about to award him a manservant with a bowl cut when my revelrie was interrupted by Mr. Viking Chic himself.
He asked me if we were waiting for the proper train, which I confirmed so, and made some sort of observation regarding how late it was running, so he could determine if he was on the verge of being Fashionably Late to his Viking-Chic engagements. The conversation, I thought, would naturally end there, as they normally do.
So I was very taken aback when he pressed me for more information.
First, he made his own observations about my reading material's weight, how getting to the table of contents involved wading through 120 pages of advertisements. I was mildly offended, mostly because I have an unrequited love for Vogue magazine (even if they, too, would consider me middle aged), but then remembered that telling people you read Vogue for the articles is a lot like telling people you read Playboy for the articles and would most likely would earn you an unflattering label.
So I just politely laughed, like you do when your teacher makes a dorky joke.
"So, where are you heading?" The Viking Prince asked.
I told him, which lead to more questions.
"Why are you heading there?" He asked.
Since I borrow my grandmother's jewels and furs (when appropriate) to wear around town, or because I never pepper my conversation with the phrase "I was at the club last week..." or "You'll never guess who I hooked up with yesterday..." people tend to overestimate my age. So when I tell perfect strangers that I have a class to attend, I am required to explain myself, or say something to diffuse their disappointment.
And when you tell people you're still in what you consider day care (with sadder crayons), you have to answer the inevitable question:
"And what do you plan on doing when you get out of there?"
In short, I told him that I planned to run off to New York, specifically, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I would camp out at the Temple of Dendur from now to eternity, periodically sustaining myself with hors d'oeuvres pilfered from event trays. It would be a lonely life, but I'd manage, and perhaps engage in madcap adventures along the way.
My Nordic Friend remarked that I could perhaps land a handsome deal with PBS if I marketed my adventures as a sort of travel documentary, and if I ever needed a strong cameraman, "You know who to call."
"I could also fight off any tourists who got any ideas..." He said.
On that creepy note, the train pulled in to the station. I found my seat, as did he: in the seat across the aisle from me. It was safe to assume that he would want to continue our exchange, as I did not visibly recoil when he offered his camera-toting and tourist-scaring services, since he sat so conspicuously near me, on this empty train car.
So it was surprising when our ride was characterized not by interesting exchanges, but with cold, harsh silence.
Here is where things got creepily paranoid on my part, with regards to my appearance: I couldn't help but notice that he had stopped talking to me once we sat down, which was at the same moment when I took off my sunglasses. Sunglasses usually don't make a bit of difference unless you have a severe disfiguration, but like I said, I was feeling a bit rough at 9:30 am.
What cemented my paranoia was not the conspicuous silence, but also the odd way he'd stare at me every 30 seconds. I recognized this stare, as I usually employed it when I found someone with a very remarkable (read: unusual) appearance. When taking off my sunglasses, did I disrupt the interior life he had fashioned for me, as I had for him?
I also couldn't help but think that perhaps I was growing some sort of eye tumor that I didn't know about. The previous night, I was up late, glued to a television show called "The Woman Whose Face Blew Up." Contrary to my initial thought, this didn't involve spontaneous explosion, per say. But one day, this nice, charming, former beauty queen just woke up with a face full of blueberry-sized tumors. As is the case with such alarming incidents, no one knew what caused her to break out, or how to fix her.
Instead of sulking about it, this lady ended up fashioning a vibrant life in the English countryside, by surrounding herself with beings that would never ever judge her. Which happened to be a stunning array of llamas. She's around 80 now, and seems to be satisfied with the way things turned out, or would be if the interviewer hadn't asked her questions like:
"So you were a former beauty queen. How did you feel when you woke up horribly disfigured, eventually scaring off your handsome, rich fiancee and alienating your family?"
As the Viking kept staring and not talking, I couldn't help but feel the tiniest tumors begin to take over my face. By the time my station stop rolled around, I'd be rendered unrecognizable and have to board the next bus to a llama farm and gather a variety of blunt objects, just in case an insensitive journalist asked me such an offensive question.
When my stop rolled around, my train companion wordlessly regarded me as I walked up to the doors and out of his life forever. I consulted a mirror shortly afterwards, to see what was consuming my flesh, to find nothing there but the faintest shimmer of eyeshadow from the night before. Of course, I didn't want a disfiguring face tumor, but at the very least it would explain things if a social exchange went awry. I'd have a built-in excuse to cushion me against perceived rejections.
I would be able to say things like:
"Oh, I'm sorry that I didn't do so well during my employee review. Maybe my horrible and tragic disfigurement kept me from properly seeing my computer screen!"
"You never want to see me again? Well, neither do I--oh wait, I never could in the first place because I HAVE A DISFIGUREMENT that keeps me from seeing properly anyway!"
"You had a hard day at work? Well, I'm disfigured!"
Instead of disfigurements, I have a steady stream of Awful Memories to keep the rejections easier to swallow. Nothing too dramatic, of course, but I was never too popular with my peers until I reached college. Whether I was ugly or not remains unknown, but I'd prefer to think it was that instead of something virtually unchangeable, like an unattractive personality. But I might as well be disfigured, with the sort of illogical assumptions regarding my attractiveness, or lackthereof, in my head.
I'll never know what happened with the Viking Man and his appraisal of my appearance, but someday, I might be able to take off my sunglasses without feeling like I've disappointed the entire room. Until then, there's always the Temple of Dendur, I suppose.
*This doesn't mean I want to be disfigured, in the least bit, and my heart goes out to those who are. If it were up to me, those people would be able to get all the llama farms they wanted, for free, and be allowed to bludgeon any meddling journalist they wanted to, without punishment.