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Believe it. Mullets do exist. Now, I know that you thought it was a myth-- an urban legend, if you will. Until today. When getting into the elevator in my posh place of work (okay-- that's a slight... or rather, overblown... exaggeration...), there it was: The Mullet.
It happened to be on a woman (is that how you refer to the hairstyle that for some reason, never goes out of style?)... with REALLY long hair... but REALLY short on the top and in the front. (She was also wearing acid washed jeans, so that might explain some things.)
In any case, it sparked my curiosity. Why is it that so many people still have mullets? The instant message in a hairstyle that says all things negative and no things positive. So I did some research, which I felt I should share with you:
From wikipedia: A mullet is a haircut that is short in the front, on the top, and on the sides, but long in the back. Mullets have been worn by males and females of all ages, but they have traditionally been most popular with younger men. A slogan or motto often associated with people who wear mullets is: "business in front, party in back."
Just so we all know (as the article does clarify), the mullet is distinct from the rattail, which consists of a long, narrow "tail" of hair growing from the back of the head.
The article then goes on to give the historical significance of the mullet. WOW.
For those interested in even more mullet goodness, be sure to check out these choice sites: Awwww yeaaaah.
My boss has been trying to get me into a Presentation Skills class for about a year-- it's generally given to salespeople, but since I'm targeted as "high potential," she thought that it was a good "development opportunity." Plus, she took the class and loved it. So while I've successfully dodged it thus far, my number came up this week... and I was forced into what I'd like to call "organized torture."
Ten of us in a room, learning how to be a more effective presenter. Doesn't sound so painful, does it? Someone teaching you carriage and gesture (good-- as long as not obscene), "vocal variety" (show emotion, emphasize points by slightly raising your voice), pausing (don't say "UM" or "aaaannnd....") and making eye contact... with everyone in the room, whether there's two people or one hundred. Your goal is to make each and every person feel like you have something to say, just to them.
All good, right? Well, sure... until you take into consideration that it's not simply someone talking at you... but rather, you actually have to practice this stuff... in front of 9 of your peers, and ON CAMERA. Yes. You are being videotaped. And to add insult to injury? You then get to watch your performance-- on painfully slow and paused playback, along with the rest of the room. Over and over again.
I'm not an actor; I hate to draw attention to myself. Yes, I did get up on stage in college all the time and sIng in front of people. But I had 11 other people backing me up. Sure, for a salesperson, or someone who delivers presentations over and over again, this training is awesome. They want to be the rockstar; they were the high school football jock or the class president or the cheerleader. But me? I was the VICE President. Why? Because I HATE TO PRESENT. And to the person (me) who gets up in front of an audience every year, year and a half or so, it's like pulling your finger nails out with a pair of pliers. The only thing that I can think about during those painfully long playbacks are, "God, I need a haircut... is that how I really look? Maybe I should take Jen's advice and wear lipstick... when did I gain all that weight?"
Day one is over... now there's day two... five more tapings to go... and instead of prepping my presentation I'm blogging... prolonging the torture. There's a reason I chose my current vocation... because I'm the "man behind the curtain." I'm the one who puts words in everyone else's mouth because I hate delivering them myself. My favorite phrase, along the lines of... lover not a fighter? "I'm a writer, not a speaker."
I've been terribly remiss about posting and as such, hope I haven't lost my loyal readers (all three of you) with my blatant disregard. I know there are much more important things to do in the world, and while I could blame it on work (damn travel), really, all I have to blame is myself. As Copperpot would sing, "My Apologies."
I am a self-proclaimed shoe hound. I love shoes... not in the Carrie-Bradshaw-$600-dropping shoe kind of way, but certainly in the love-them-gotta-have-them kind of way. I love all kinds of shoes... slippers (that's flip flops to the non-Hawaiians), sneakers, hiking/outdoor shoes (love, love, love my Merrells and Timberlands), fashion sport shoes (just made that up... think: Puma), sandals, ballet flats and all the trends in between. I make up for not having the money to buy designer brands (although even if I did have the money, my frugalness and disgust at the thought of spending that kind of money on shoes would ultimately be the end of me-- I mean, I love shoes, but COME ON PEOPLE!) by buying shoes with character from funky stores like my two faves on 23rd Street in Manhattan (if I ever remembered the names of them, I would share... I promise), Nordstrom Rack (you can find GEMS if you have the patience to wade through the vanilla) and the newest find: eBay.
But the question I ask of companies that manufacture fancy (translation: heels) shoes is this: Why the hell don't you have a comfort-tester?
I mean, you're expecting people to spend money-- and lots of it, on shoes... and then you go and make them instruments of torture. Case and point: my navy Stewart Weitzman sling backs. They're everything a designer shoe should be (and might I add, the only "name" designer shoe I actually have... purchased at Filene's Basement at basement prices: $15 for a $250 shoe). They're beautiful: perfect heel height-- just slightly over kitten; they make my calves look thin and give them that perfect, slightly muscular-but-still feminine look that a good heel does; and best of all, they make my size 9 feet look narrow and petite.
But they are the most uncomfortable things that I've ever worn (well, second most, if you count the stillettos I thought I could get away with on my recent Florida trip). I thought that I'd be able to pull off the whole walking to work in cute shoes thing... after all, it's only a few blocks from the bus, and I see hundreds of girls every week wearing much higher and more uncomfortable-looking shoes. And for once I didn't want to look like a total schlub in my suit and dirty sneakers... the 80s, walking commuter look. I wanted to be one of those posh girls who get the enviable looks on the bus and when walking down the street in their pencil skirts and matching heels.
So instead, I ended up limping to the office, wondering if I could get away with walking barefoot the last block and still come off looking pulled together... surely that would be better than mimicking Igor after he says, "Walk this way." And to add insult to injury, I secured two blisters, each squarely located on the palms of my feet (if feet have palms) and cementing the start to another great day at the office.
It should be Monday.
I don't really think of myself as a grown up... of course there are occasional reminders: work (okay; so that's a constant reminder... had I been smart, I would have done something that required many, many, many more years of school); the fact that I'm facing my ten (!) year college reunion; and, oh. The multitude of weddings that I've attended in the past few years.
After all, I still watch bad tv. And by bad, I mean, really bad. My favorite shows are the Gilmore Girls, Cheerleader Nation, Sweet Sixteen... and basically, anything on the "WB." Other than the obligatory daily activity (work), I pretty much lead a carefree life and get to relish in the things I like, at my whimsy (guitar, museums, friends, travel, movies).
But where I'm starting to get all tripped up is in the fact that my friends-- the single-then married 20-then-barely 30-somethings-- are starting families. As in, BABIES. So, okay, rolling with the punches, as I usually do, I thought to myself... baby, one baby, I can handle that. At first it was somewhat overwhelming... the baby showers (realization that we really are capable of procreation), physical beings (oh, there's really "parenting" involved) and then schedules (life really isn't going to be like it was before) and ultimately the baptisms (baby really here, acknowledged and not going away).
So, adjustment withstanding, there's still the grasping at straws phase, followed by the marriage and the first baby phase. You adjust to the marriage; then the baby... and you can still convince yourself that you're young and carefree... and then it hits you. Your friends who are parents don't have the carefree life that you still have... and then the bomb drops. Baby number two. Baby number TWO?!? It's cemented... written in stone... we're adults. Grown ups. One kid is one thing... we can still play the young singles and count on babysitters and bringing baby to dinners, and the whole nine yards. You can still play the young game... until baby number two comes along... and you become a family.
So maybe I'm not in the same place... and sometimes, even though it makes me sad and even when I know that for me, I'm in a really good place and if given the opportunity, I don't know that that's the place I'd want to be... I see these little things... these babies that are products of people I love so much, that I have the opportunity to be in their lives and part of shaping who they get to be... who they will become and all the possibility that is wrapped up in them. And I know that even though I may be in a different place, that they are a gift to the world... that life evolves and really, it becomes better... and that utlimately growing up... just might not be such a bad thing.
