they’re a little snug in the waist.
“These are perfect. Let’s Polaroid these, too. We might have to cut them in the back, though,” she says. “You guys really shouldn’t fudge your sizes, you know?” She attempts a smile, but I can tell she’s irritated.
“I didn’t fudge my sizes,” I say, as nicely as I can. “At least, I don’t think I did.”
“Well, what jean size did you give them?”
“Um. Eight maybe?”
“In inches, I mean.”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t know they made pants in sizes like that.”
“Well, that’s how they size jeans now. It’s probably where we got the signals crossed. Don’t worry. You’re sitting most of the time, thank God, so we can improvise. Like I said, we can cut them if we have to.”
I can’t believe she’s going to cut a brand-new pair of khakis just so I can sit down in them for a few hours. And I feel guilty that I’m not the right jeans size.
“What’s a good size to be? In inches, I mean.”
Alicia looks thoughtful, then seems to decide I’m worthy of being educated. She takes a deep breath.
“Well, I usually do features.” She pauses, somewhat dramatically.
“Uh-huh,” I say, confused as to whether that’s my answer.
“So like, on this last feature I did, I worked with Cordelia Biscayne?” She raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, wow.” I’m trying to look as impressed as I can tell Alicia wants me to be.
“Yes, I know. I was one of the assistants to the designer, but still. Cordelia’s a doll , by the way. And anyway, her jean size is twenty-six, twenty-seven. Yours is probably, twenty-nine or thirty? So,” Alicia says, sympathetically. “Not that you should feel bad—I mean, you look fine, and not everyone can be Cordelia Biscayne, right? But, something to aspire to.”
Of all the lists I’ve made of goals, and all the visions I’ve had, it never before occurred to me that I could be this specific, that I could aspire to a goal actually measurable in inches. I wonder if this is how successful people do it. I wonder if the difference between success and failure could more accurately be described in the waist sizes for jeans. “Well, I’m doing all right, I guess,” I imagine myself saying, “but I’m about three inches from where I really want to be.” I think of how much effort it has taken me to even be a 29. I can’t imagine what else I could do to be a 26. But it makes sense, too, that the Cordelia Biscaynes of the world are literally measurably different from the rest of us.
Three inches might as well be three hundred to me today.
“ H i, I’m Carol, I’ll be doing your makeup. Any allergies or preferences I should know about?”
I’m looking into a giant mirror on a wall of mirrors, each framed by dozens of fluorescent lightbulbs. In the blinding light, my face looks nothing like the face I have in Brooklyn. I wonder if this is my real face, or if the face I have in Brooklyn is the real one, and what my Queens face might look like.
“Um, no, not that I can think of,” I tell her. I wonder if I will, over time, develop preferences, and what they might be in regard to my face being made up. I hope I do this long enough to have time to acquire some, so I don’t feel so unprepared for these types of questions.
She snaps a switch by her station and what seem like a hundred more round bulbs spring to life.
“Wow, do I really have all those freckles?” I just can’t get over how different my face looks in this mirror.
“Mmm, let me see.” Carol puts on the glasses that hang on a chain around her neck and brings her face just inches from mine. I hold very still, as if I’m being examined in a doctor’s office. “Well. You have some freckles, it’s true. I don’t think they’re distracting, though. I don’t see them as a problem, but I can even out your skin tone if that’s what concerns you.” Carol sighs. I don’t think she likes me.
“Okay, great. Whatever you think. Thanks.”
“Want a
“These are perfect. Let’s Polaroid these, too. We might have to cut them in the back, though,” she says. “You guys really shouldn’t fudge your sizes, you know?” She attempts a smile, but I can tell she’s irritated.
“I didn’t fudge my sizes,” I say, as nicely as I can. “At least, I don’t think I did.”
“Well, what jean size did you give them?”
“Um. Eight maybe?”
“In inches, I mean.”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t know they made pants in sizes like that.”
“Well, that’s how they size jeans now. It’s probably where we got the signals crossed. Don’t worry. You’re sitting most of the time, thank God, so we can improvise. Like I said, we can cut them if we have to.”
I can’t believe she’s going to cut a brand-new pair of khakis just so I can sit down in them for a few hours. And I feel guilty that I’m not the right jeans size.
“What’s a good size to be? In inches, I mean.”
Alicia looks thoughtful, then seems to decide I’m worthy of being educated. She takes a deep breath.
“Well, I usually do features.” She pauses, somewhat dramatically.
“Uh-huh,” I say, confused as to whether that’s my answer.
“So like, on this last feature I did, I worked with Cordelia Biscayne?” She raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, wow.” I’m trying to look as impressed as I can tell Alicia wants me to be.
“Yes, I know. I was one of the assistants to the designer, but still. Cordelia’s a doll , by the way. And anyway, her jean size is twenty-six, twenty-seven. Yours is probably, twenty-nine or thirty? So,” Alicia says, sympathetically. “Not that you should feel bad—I mean, you look fine, and not everyone can be Cordelia Biscayne, right? But, something to aspire to.”
Of all the lists I’ve made of goals, and all the visions I’ve had, it never before occurred to me that I could be this specific, that I could aspire to a goal actually measurable in inches. I wonder if this is how successful people do it. I wonder if the difference between success and failure could more accurately be described in the waist sizes for jeans. “Well, I’m doing all right, I guess,” I imagine myself saying, “but I’m about three inches from where I really want to be.” I think of how much effort it has taken me to even be a 29. I can’t imagine what else I could do to be a 26. But it makes sense, too, that the Cordelia Biscaynes of the world are literally measurably different from the rest of us.
Three inches might as well be three hundred to me today.
“ H i, I’m Carol, I’ll be doing your makeup. Any allergies or preferences I should know about?”
I’m looking into a giant mirror on a wall of mirrors, each framed by dozens of fluorescent lightbulbs. In the blinding light, my face looks nothing like the face I have in Brooklyn. I wonder if this is my real face, or if the face I have in Brooklyn is the real one, and what my Queens face might look like.
“Um, no, not that I can think of,” I tell her. I wonder if I will, over time, develop preferences, and what they might be in regard to my face being made up. I hope I do this long enough to have time to acquire some, so I don’t feel so unprepared for these types of questions.
She snaps a switch by her station and what seem like a hundred more round bulbs spring to life.
“Wow, do I really have all those freckles?” I just can’t get over how different my face looks in this mirror.
“Mmm, let me see.” Carol puts on the glasses that hang on a chain around her neck and brings her face just inches from mine. I hold very still, as if I’m being examined in a doctor’s office. “Well. You have some freckles, it’s true. I don’t think they’re distracting, though. I don’t see them as a problem, but I can even out your skin tone if that’s what concerns you.” Carol sighs. I don’t think she likes me.
“Okay, great. Whatever you think. Thanks.”
“Want a
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