I believe it was Ivana Trump in People magazine who said that you should always overdress to success, that if you show up in a meeting in a powersuit while everyone else is in jeans, you de facto own the room. It just lends an air of confidence that projects itself onto everyone else, and subconsciously you’re given an aura of power. It's not just Ivana, either. There was this other article in People about this charity organization that gave make-overs to women on welfare who were looking for jobs. If you dress the part, you're more likely to stop being a burden on the state and start to pull your own weight. (Remember, I read my mom's old People magazine while I'm waiting for the dialup connection.)
I try and take that adage to heart. Take, for instance, finals last semester, where I dressed snazzily, tie and all. Everyone else was kind of stinky and burnt out from cramming, while I breezed in, freshly showered, shaved and dressed for success. I got an A in that class. I'd like to think the tie helped.
And so, yesterday, the first day of classes of the new semester, I decided to kick it up a notch. I dyed my hair a few shades darker this weekend, got a haircut Monday morning, and tamed my eyebrows a bit. I wore a button up maroon shirt, with matching underwear, lowrise buttonfly vintage wash jeans, and a new pair of shoes from Aldos. I had a sexy new jacket from Target and a new backpack that was very stylish and very much a manpurse. To paraphrase the Gay Pimp Daddy's disappointing follow-up to "Soccer Practice," I was looking cute and feeling good.
That is, until lunch, when the soda machine had too much pep in it, and my soda kept fizzing even after I removed my glass from the nozzle. It was about to overflow, so I leaned in to grab a sip, but was too late, spilling drops of cherry coke carbonation on the front of my shirt.
Well, shit. I meant to head back to my room to change after lunch, but the time got away from me, and I had to get to my next class.
I made it to class with only a few minutes to spare. I walked past the door, about to breeze in nonchalantly and coolly, when I think I spy Dorothy Parker Boy in the front row. Our eyes meet, and I keep on walking past the door.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Dorothy Parker Boy, for those of you just joining us, is a guy with whom I went on a few dates last October. I fell hard. I thought things were going well, seeing a concert together and making out on the docks and staring at clouds and other cutesy stuff, until one night, after IMing him one too many times that week when he was about to head to the library to study, he said that he wasn't into me as much as I was into him. He was the guy I've been most into since my first boyfriend, a Russian Literature major who would put up Dorothy Parker poems as away messages and had really pretty blue eyes and a great smile. We would have been a great duo. Hell, we were for those two weeks or so.
And there he was, front row. Why the fuck is he in my Shakespeare class?
I'm a big fan of 'out of sight, out of mind' and I really enjoyed not seeing him, so I would remember just how much I liked him. It really works well with exes and former crushes.
I walked past the room, stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back around. I walked past the door, not even looking to see him, and high-tailed it to the bathroom.
I primped at the mirror, working my sexily disheveled hair to its full glory, bit on my lips a bit to get the full red kisabillity, straightened my outfit, and positioned my backpack just so, covering the Cherry Coke stain. A few deep breaths, and I was ready.
I stood in the doorway, head held high and looked for a place to sit. DPB was looking down at his syllabus, covering his brow with his open palm, obscuring most of his face. Grr.
And, to top things off, to his right was sitting a girl who lives across the hall from me, the girl with whom I went drinking the night before (whoops!), who proceeded to greet me and ask me why I was dressed up so much, which sort of ruined my plan and my suave entrance.
The class was pretty boring (I'm sure I'll talk more about it later), but afterwards I got up to talk to the girl from across the hall, and DPB darted out of there like a bat out of hell, he was gone gone gone gone. I chatted with her as she got her stuff together, and as we walked out of the room, there was DPB standing by the stairs, checking his voicemail. He made a pronounced movement when he saw me, completely turning around to listen to his phone, blocking me off.
Well, so much for a second chance.
Fuck.
