Why I’ll never be fancy.

fancy pantsI will never be fancy. I can fake it, if needs be, but I assure you dear reader: It’s all a ruse.

First of all, there’s the walking.

I fall off my heels. I fall off my heels when I’m barefoot. I trip over curbs, and over the seams between sidewalk sections. Once, when wearing my fanciest dress and my fanciest heels, I took a step off a stage — and slid down the rest of the stairs, in front of God and everybody. The ability to locomote with some degree of confidence is, if I’m not mistaken, a key element of being fancy.

Then there’s the food and drink portion of any event dedicated to fanciness. For starters, I don’t drink. I mean, I do hydrate and all, but I don’t drink alcohol, so the whole “fine wine and/or champagne” thing is lost on me. To make matters worse, when it comes to wine, “I don’t drink” is really just my excuse for not drinking, because I actually hate wine (and/or champagne). It tastes awful — what are you people thinking?

And fancy food generally means fancy meat, and while I do eat meat, I don’t get it. I would almost always prefer a nice bowl of oatmeal, frankly. I will admit that I recently discovered the joys of a well-prepared pan-seared rib eye (and yes, it is in fact possible to keep kosher and still get a good steak) but probably my favorite meat dish is meatloaf. And I think we can all agree that meatloaf is not fancy.

Furthermore, at any given moment, at least one part of my body looks (or in fact is) banged up. I hurt myself in the most mind-boggling ways — the scab I’m currently sporting on my right index finger, for instance, is the result of (and I am really and truly not making this up) being cut by a loaf of bread. A loaf. Of bread.

Now, of course, it was a very crusty loaf of bread. And it was just out of the freezer, and some bits of crust were kind of breaking off and were rather sharp because they were frozen. But still and all. It takes real skill to be injured by a loaf of bread that was not, I don’t know, shot out of a t-shirt cannon at one’s head. (Unless one is Jean Valjean, in which case it was really poverty and a repressive system of government that did the injuring).

I can’t even get a really good manicure, because (follow-up to the above!) I once slammed my left hand in a car door and 30 years later, one of the nails still doesn’t grow properly. I’ve been told that the fact that said nail always splits when it gets past about a millimeter long (actual measurement, BTW) indicates that I must have “damaged the nail seed.” Which, of course. Of course I would “damage the nail seed.”

I do clean up pretty well. Give me a nice dress, a flat-iron, and my makeup basket, and I’ll look ok at your fancy do. And I tend to smile a lot, which I have found can cover a lot of bases.

Plus, it eases everyone’s mind considerably if you’re smiling as they help you up off the floor.

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