First time nerves are often the worst
A million damning possibilities have yet to make way for silver linings and rays of sunshine.
Come to think of it, I believe it is an incredible luck that there has been so much written about courtesans and their lovers. Passages recounting trysts made me blush as I looked over my shoulder, making sure no one was noticing what I was feasting on. The details of adventures, lace and soirees intrigued me and enchanted me - getting to know a person in such an intimate way appealed greatly to me.
On the other hand, everywhere around me was this pervasive message that I was expected to act a certain way. As an adolescent I remember being told by a family relative : "Oh my dear, ladies don't apply rouge at the restaurant table."
I had only finished my meal and found it foolish to shield the world from the view of me re-applying a soft pink lipstick. I turned to her and asked why that was, that this ritual should somehow be hidden. The explanation left me unsatisfied and wanting more.
These ways I was supposed to just "know how to be" in formal circumstances has given me grief in the past, more than once. As I've matured, I've been better able to navigate the gap between what people expect of me and how much I care depending on the setting. Younger, it was more of an "On/Off" switch. I'll never forget my very last day of working in a retail store. We sold men's suits. I loved meeting the people shopping there, hearing about their lives and did my best to recommend an outfit that would make them feel their absolute best.
However, I did not always do a good job of dressing in a way that suited my more conservative colleagues' tastes - nor even my manager's requirements. It wasn't for not trying - I would often wear a brown or grey pencil skirt (past the knees) or pants with a dress shirt. One morning, heading to work, I noticed that I had only one pair of tights left to wear with that day's skirt. They were forest green, one of my favorite colors. I was in the middle of a move and working full time, all my pants were in the wash. I knew the dress code called for grey of black or nude tights but on that morning, five minutes to go before I caught my bus, I just grabbed the green nylon and went.
I don't think I will ever forget the looks I got that day. My manager pulled me aside to tell me that I looked like the green giant. He wanted me to go home and change out of the outfit. I agreed, took the bus back. Halfway through the 90 minute commute, I had a moment of pure satori. A kick in the eye, as Jack Kerouac would say.
"I could be doing any other job."
That was it. Arriving home, I went straight for the newspaper. Called the first number of the first agency on the last page of the paper. The voice on the phone and & fixed a meeting for that evening. I had a very informal interview in an Irish pub on Crescent street. When I walked in with my shaved head and my black, beat up Doc Marten's, I was pretty sure I was going to get another talking to about dress code. Instead, a man, also bald, crossed eyes with me and smiled, gesturing me to come over. I pulled my little black dress down a bit more, and tried to look seductive as I made my way to him.
Beside him was his assistant, an elegant woman in her mid-forties. I was instantly, almost entirely reassured. She greeted me as a friend would. Looking into her eyes, I saw such warmth and understanding that for a brief moment I was no longer nervous or shy. They both told me how their agency functioned and asked me questions about my own preferences. It was a bit nerve wracking to think about what I would feel comfortable doing with a stranger then to admit it in public to two complete strangers - and for it to feel like a job interview. It felt so freaking wild that I could not believe I got a talking to at my previous job for green tights. This job straight up encourages fishnets!
It felt a little victorious, a little bit like I had found my people.
Finishing up my beer (and a glass of water), I was about to head out when they both told me to wait for a bit. I looked at them quizzically but agreed. A handful of minutes later, she walked in.
"Here's Jessica." the man said in a deep tone.
It was eleven on a Tuesday evening, snowing up a blizzard in the streets of Montreal. She came in,
a flurry of snowflakes trying to follow her. A fur hood framed her delicate face, strong cheekbones and pouty red lips. As she made her way to us, her mane of blond hair escaped her winter coat. She looked like a goddess.
We introduced each other, and as soon as we finished shaking hands, she reached into the pocket of her Canada Goose jacket and started eating a pack of McDonald's fries.
Come to think of it, I believe it is an incredible luck that there has been so much written about courtesans and their lovers. Passages recounting trysts made me blush as I looked over my shoulder, making sure no one was noticing what I was feasting on. The details of adventures, lace and soirees intrigued me and enchanted me - getting to know a person in such an intimate way appealed greatly to me.
On the other hand, everywhere around me was this pervasive message that I was expected to act a certain way. As an adolescent I remember being told by a family relative : "Oh my dear, ladies don't apply rouge at the restaurant table."
I had only finished my meal and found it foolish to shield the world from the view of me re-applying a soft pink lipstick. I turned to her and asked why that was, that this ritual should somehow be hidden. The explanation left me unsatisfied and wanting more.
These ways I was supposed to just "know how to be" in formal circumstances has given me grief in the past, more than once. As I've matured, I've been better able to navigate the gap between what people expect of me and how much I care depending on the setting. Younger, it was more of an "On/Off" switch. I'll never forget my very last day of working in a retail store. We sold men's suits. I loved meeting the people shopping there, hearing about their lives and did my best to recommend an outfit that would make them feel their absolute best.
However, I did not always do a good job of dressing in a way that suited my more conservative colleagues' tastes - nor even my manager's requirements. It wasn't for not trying - I would often wear a brown or grey pencil skirt (past the knees) or pants with a dress shirt. One morning, heading to work, I noticed that I had only one pair of tights left to wear with that day's skirt. They were forest green, one of my favorite colors. I was in the middle of a move and working full time, all my pants were in the wash. I knew the dress code called for grey of black or nude tights but on that morning, five minutes to go before I caught my bus, I just grabbed the green nylon and went.
I don't think I will ever forget the looks I got that day. My manager pulled me aside to tell me that I looked like the green giant. He wanted me to go home and change out of the outfit. I agreed, took the bus back. Halfway through the 90 minute commute, I had a moment of pure satori. A kick in the eye, as Jack Kerouac would say.
"I could be doing any other job."
That was it. Arriving home, I went straight for the newspaper. Called the first number of the first agency on the last page of the paper. The voice on the phone and & fixed a meeting for that evening. I had a very informal interview in an Irish pub on Crescent street. When I walked in with my shaved head and my black, beat up Doc Marten's, I was pretty sure I was going to get another talking to about dress code. Instead, a man, also bald, crossed eyes with me and smiled, gesturing me to come over. I pulled my little black dress down a bit more, and tried to look seductive as I made my way to him.
Beside him was his assistant, an elegant woman in her mid-forties. I was instantly, almost entirely reassured. She greeted me as a friend would. Looking into her eyes, I saw such warmth and understanding that for a brief moment I was no longer nervous or shy. They both told me how their agency functioned and asked me questions about my own preferences. It was a bit nerve wracking to think about what I would feel comfortable doing with a stranger then to admit it in public to two complete strangers - and for it to feel like a job interview. It felt so freaking wild that I could not believe I got a talking to at my previous job for green tights. This job straight up encourages fishnets!
It felt a little victorious, a little bit like I had found my people.
Finishing up my beer (and a glass of water), I was about to head out when they both told me to wait for a bit. I looked at them quizzically but agreed. A handful of minutes later, she walked in.
"Here's Jessica." the man said in a deep tone.
It was eleven on a Tuesday evening, snowing up a blizzard in the streets of Montreal. She came in,
a flurry of snowflakes trying to follow her. A fur hood framed her delicate face, strong cheekbones and pouty red lips. As she made her way to us, her mane of blond hair escaped her winter coat. She looked like a goddess.
We introduced each other, and as soon as we finished shaking hands, she reached into the pocket of her Canada Goose jacket and started eating a pack of McDonald's fries.
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