I recently scored this semi-cool writing job, at a publication that shall remain unnamed so that I don’t get fired from said semi-cool job. On my first day, I was escorted to my cubicle and found the following note scribbled by my predecessor:
“You have to be a little snobby in order to be a travel or food writer, otherwise no one will take you seriously.”
“Hmm…” I thought. “Robin Leach-snobby or Rachel-McAdams-in-‘Mean-Girls’ snobby?” The latter and childishly catty version I could definitely pull off, having actually survived middle school. But the richly sophisticated snobby, I wasn’t so sure. Yesterday came my first test.
A man came to speak to me about some new hotel, in some remote and absurdly green part of Ireland. He spoke of wonderful things, like personal assistants and serene boat rides with seven swans, free “spirits” and complimentary cashmere wraps. I was intrigued and tried to ask appropriately snobby questions, i.e. “Kind sir—tell me, what product line does the spa carry?” and “Must one really fuss with the personal assistant? When I travel I much prefer solitude.” On a later trip to the bathroom, I realized I looked like a complete slob.
I’m getting a cold, so my eyes were bloodshot. Our company holiday party had been the night before, so I was slightly hung over. That previous night I slept at the boy’s house and when I do so I never wash my hair, as it just requires too much maintenance, so it was greasily pulled back into a ponytail. I had just come back from a coma-inducing lunch of pizza (to cure the hangover, natch) and my breath reeked of garlic, which I had tried to mask by popping a mint--only at the start of the sit-down I concluded there is no way to appear sophisticated while sucking on a mint. Also, my wife beater was peeking out of my wrap shirt. I then decided I am in no way qualified for this job and have since suffered feelings of immense anxiety over my aesthetic inadequacy.
Now, I’m required to go to London to scope out some swank hotel. The restaurant serves food I don’t recognize and the pool has music underwater. Each guest room has original artwork. No, I’m not complaining. I’m just suddenly panicked about my abundance of Gap pants and Payless Shoes.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
We all knew this day would come, the day I finally acknowledged that I'm self-absorbed--nay, deluded--enough to think you all would take the time to read my random rantings with some regularity. That's right, I just busted out some alliteration on the first post. Let the blogging begin...