When I Take A Moment and Talk About Ridiculous Girly Bullshit

Kdogg and I used to exert what we called "Falda Power" (falda is Spanish for skirt), wherein we make use of the often-underestimated power of the falda. It's amazing what a little falda can do to your walk, and consequently to your talk and to the talk you get. People treat you differently when you're in a falda, which is normal, because you act differently as well. You just can't be sloppy and gross when wearing a hot, snazzy falda. Maybe you haven't been aware of it, but pay attention next time. You'll experience what we call Falda Power. And it's a magnificent thing.

I've decided to embrace the power of the falda once again, and am thus determined to wear more of them during this period of bizarrely well-balanced self-esteem.

Meanwhile, my hair has gotten to a point where I wear it down from time to time. It's past my chin, at a comfortable stage where it can get tucked behind my ears, need be. Thus far, it's gotten positive reviews from everyone but The Boy, who doesn't even notice when I get my haircut anyway. Kathypath lent me a blowdryer (on loan until her blowdrying American friend comes to visit again), and I've been experimenting with my new head. After wearing my hair in a ponytail every day since April, I'm pretty excited to be able to comb it and style it and stuff. It's the little pleasures.

So today, I woke up thinking: "Yes! Treat yourself to luxury! Wear the falda, blowdry your hair, and live it up! You're babilicious, baby!"

So I blowdried my hair (blewdry?) and convinced it to go in the places I wanted it to go. I also considered the falda, but vetoed it because my nylons needed some serious washing (they are currently drying on the clothesline). Although the falda was postponed until tomorrow, I still got on some nice clothes and even considered putting on some mascara before giving it the thumbs down. One thing at a time, folks. Last Friday was the first time I've gone out with my hair down, so going to work for the first time with my hair down felt like it would be a big enough event in and of itself. Mind you, it's only an event in my own head - my coworkers won't even notice. But still, I didn't need to add the mascara to the mix. It might have been too much for one day.

I headed out for work at 8.45 (first class was at 10.30), feeling groovy. But the second I stepped out of my building, I frowned: It was pouring rain. Somewhere in my excitement over such crucial fashion decisions, I had managed to remain totally oblivious to the rather serious Parisian downpour.

In hopes of salvaging my hairdressing effort, I bolted down the half-block to the metro. I would have been fine, if, when I got off the bus an hour later (I take a metro to a train to a bus to get to work), I didn't have a five-minute walk in the rain to the high school.

Argh. By the end of my journey, my hair was curling in all directions, creating a fantastic frenzy of frizzies all over my head. My masterpiece! Ruined!

So I sat down in the teachers' lounge, grabbed myself a coffee, and, defeated, put my hair back into a ponytail. I also resolved to buy myself an umbrella, even though I hate the damn things. Why not just call them Eye Pokers? Because that's what they really are. Screw the Eye Poker; I can't wait for my hat to arrive in the mail.

Now, I'm really not a superficial cat. Any female who knows me knows that:

1. I have fewer clothes than she does.
2. I have fewer shoes than she does.
3. I have less make-up than she does.

It's just the way it is. But I was pretty pissed off that the excitement of dolling myself up - for the first time in a long, long time - was so quickly and so completely shot down. As a result, I spent my classes feeling ugly and gross, with my frizzy head of rain-beaten hair stuck in a ratty ponytail that I hadn't even been able to do in front of a mirror. In my head, my students were thinking, "Dude, what's up with her hair today?" even though, let's be honest, it looked much the same as it does every day.

Walking back to the bus stop from work, the rain was coming down even harder. I decided God was trying to tell me something. I don't know, something like, "You get more split ends when you blow dry" or "Skirts are for hos" or "Stop thinking about such mindless nonsense. People in the world are dying!" I resolved to never consider such superficial crap again. To stop the madness right then and there. To just wear my ragged pants and button-downs on the daily. Forget falda power. Forget hair styling. Forget sexy babe-ness.

I was listening to Outkast, which was getting me suitably pumped up and grumpy. I bent my head against the rain and stomped my way towards the bus stop. So much for living my moment of postive self-esteem to its fullest.

But right then, I tell you, a fire truck pulled up beside me. An entire fire truck full of firefighters. They are sexy beasts, let me say. The driver leaned down from his perch and said, "Do you want a ride?" The other fireman looked on inquisitively.

Dude! Firemen wanted to drive me to the bus stop! I thanked them and said no (they were going in the wrong direction), and the driver said, "But it's pretty cold out there. Are you sure?"

I only had about half the parking lot left to walk across, so I pointed and said, "I'm just going to the bus stop. Thanks though!" and laughed. It's a good thing I refused, too, because they pulled out of the lot, drove up to the traffic light, went right, and then turned on their sirens and headed out to save somebody's life. If I had been in the truck, they would have had to drop me off before heading towards heroism, and you know, every second counts in matters of life and death.

They saved my day, though. Which is worth something. Just when I was beginning to doubt my newborn superficiality, divine intervention told me, "Aw, go ahead! Live up your hot babeness to the max!" Or at least, that's the message I got from the firemen.

It's on, baby. Tomorrow, it's falda time.