The Move (Part one of three)
It started like any other Thursday afternoon mani/pedi. I plunked down in the think tank that is the vibrating pedi chair with my shattered-English-speaking 'curist and began flipping through the fashion/smut magazines on hand. It was a solo pilgrimage as Shop Girl had a spray tan appointment, and I knew no one in the salon so T, my loyal 'curist, was the recipient of my witty celebrity analysis and savvy style commentary. She smiles and nods and responds with something that sounds like a chant, but it's just an act. Neither one of us can understand a word the other whispers. But that's ok. It's just what we do. And I really kind of enjoy it. I can imagine what she's saying back to me and create whole conversations based on my own assumptions.

So that was the part that was like any other afternoon mani/pedi. The part that was not, was when this very corporate (and intimidating in her Armani-ish suit and with her perfectly professional-chic tote - women with impressive handbags always intimidate me unless they are over-logo'd in which case they lose credibility instantly) woman started chuckling at some of my comments. At first I thought it was what she was reading, but then saw it was some financial trade thingy with no pictures and thought otherwise. Anyway, I was midway through my diatribe on how TAB is going to make a huge comeback (because of the pink can, it's inevitable, plus it's totally retro-chic) and why Lippmann Nail Polish Ain't Misbehavin' cannot be topped as a pedi color (it's the miracle polish that looks classicly red or chicly pink depending on your attire) when she turned to me to speak.

I was somewhat startled, as T's pleasant (if completely indecipherable) comments had allowed me to escape to a place where reporters and flocks of people hovered at my feet to hear my comments on why socially aware trendsetters should raise waistlines PRONTO or else our children will think that pants are meant only to shelter one's knees, calves and ankles from inclement weather and public oodling. I looked over to the think tank beside mine and she said, "My name is Camille. I'm the VP of Creative Services for Jost Advertising Agency and I want you to come work for me." Inner Monologue: Is she talking to T? Is she trying to steal my 'curist? The nerve! But she's offering me her card. How odd. Does she think I'm T's agent? But she's holding out her hand to shake mine. Because T's are wet, maybe? She can't take T now, it's almost massage time and no one massages like T.

"You have a keen, if quirky, take on pop culture and I think my team could use your insights." Inner monologue: "She can understand T? Expensive bag and bi-lingual. Doubly intimidating. I hope they don't start talking about the tree trunks growing out of my knees and ankles. I can't help it if I have a fear of shaving hinges.

"Would you ever consider leaving this area," she says to me, "and your dear confidante T?"

Would I ever consider leaving this area? And starting all over again? In a place where I've made no mistakes? Where I get to be the new girl in town that everyone talks about? (Could fast from now until arrival to be super-skinny new girl in town.) Take a job where they really want me to use my brain? Where they think I'm smart? (Picturing self in faux glasses on the first day at the office looking very professional chic.) Where I'll have a mentor who carries the sophisticated tote that has always been my ideal? Would I ever???!!!

"Yes, I would," I said sitting up a little more pertly in my think tank
(I told you those chairs make you smart). "Tell me about your firm." (I can't believe it. I really sound smart now. You should see me, nodding and shifting my head and doing the that's-very-impressive frown that business people do. You'd be so impressed. Of course, I'm not paying any attention. I'm daydreaming about a new corporate wardrobe, a new town with boys-unkissed, a fresh start...

To be continued next week...