You know that you have reached a new level of sophistication when your life philosophy and self-perception is based on a cartoon. Yes, I am relating to the animated character Shrek. I often feel like an obese, green ogre. Hmmm … maybe I should talk to my shrink about that. And like this fictional, obese, green ogre, I view myself as an onion.
You know the scene when Shrek tells Donkey that he is an onion with many layers, and Donkey asks him why he doesn’t compare himself to parfait? I am that onion. Or at least I hope I’m that onion. I hope that under my uncontrollable attraction to beautiful places, things and — most often — people, that I might have some inner core of substance. But there are times when I truly wonder.
For instance, I was having brunch with my mother sometime last year, and she asked me — with her crisp British accent — “when was the last time you had a meaningful relationship?” I thought seriously on the subject for some minutes and replied, “Mumu (embarrassing, but that is what I call her), I have never had a meaningful romantic relationship.” And what’s more, I don’t feel the slightest bit bad or ashamed about it. This ought to concern me, but it doesn’t.
Relationships come and go, but birthday presents are supposed to come and stay. So, despite my indifference to the copious failures of my personal life, I was extremely upset when my birthday gifts never arrived. Once again, this calls into question the existence of a core to the flaky, transparent skin of my onion. Amazon.com had a glitch in its system and all my presents from my extensive wish list — and if you haven’t created one yet, you are a fool — had been sent to my old address. What’s more, my darling mother reordered and resent the entire kit and caboodle (I just wrote kit and caboodle; that is truly frightening) to my old address again.
The girls living in my former apartment had not only opened all my gifts, which by the way is a FEDERAL offense, but they had also signed for my Dior perfume. I found this out when I took their apartment by storm and demanded my presents. Surprise was on my side, for the sorostitute, clad in boy shorts, who opened the door was so taken aback that she actually relinquished my Dior perfume and a copy of Purity and Danger. However, that was only a fraction of my birthday booty — meaning someone snagged the rest of my presents!
Okay someone stealing your birthday gifts, opening your mail and signing for a package that is clearly not theirs is pretty shitty, but I realized — shock horror — that I was infinitely more put-out by this event than the fact that last semester I was thrown over, by my gold-digging boy-toy, for a girl with a house in the Hamptons. I faced the loss of my boy-toy with utmost equanimity and composure, but someone coming between me and my Dior left me seething and irate! This begs the question: do I have a soul?
The preponderance of the evidence suggests — outlook grim. I may think of myself as this onion with the fragile, see through, flaky skin on the surface filled with many layers underneath, but are they really there?
The loss of boy-toy versus Dior conundrum, I am ashamed to say, is not an isolated event. It reminds me of a particularly sordid summer I spent living and working in Hollywood.
Warner Brothers had employed me, as a ballerina, for a launch of a touring ballet company. They had adapted Casablanca into a ballet — a terrible idea, but the money was good. It wasn’t a Mickey-Mouse show; it was a legitimate production. I was living in a hotel on Sunset: the hotel in Hollywood where Joni Mitchell offed herself. I can see why — the desperately dingy carpet alone could even have sent Pollyanna over the edge. This was the setting that I met a fellow dancer, and for the sake of anonymity, let’s call her Tabitha.
Tabitha was a kleptomaniac, with exquisite bosoms, but rather a horsy face: long gums, short teeth. The amount of things she stole from me I cannot recall exactly, except for three specifics: two pairs of panties, my Canadian ID and my ex-boyfriend.
It may seem implausible for someone to steal an ex-boyfriend, but considering he moved from New York to California in pursuit of me … it is sort of possible. And the upshot was, I was far more upset about my fine panties and my ID than the boy.
Okay, first of all, stealing panties is weird — and, I might add, she was not the first to perpetrate this crime against me. However, unlike the other panty-thieves, she filched mine when we were doing laundry together.
Honestly guys, or girls, don’t take the panties … they may look like unsubstantial tiny pieces of fabric to you (which they are, or ought to be), but those things cost money! And also they can have sentimental history and value, unbeknownst to you. In this case, the panties she stole were my best and my favorite (100 percent silk); I mourn the loss of them to this day. Also, her stealing my ID was disturbing because I sort of felt like she was weirdly steeling a part of my identity … very single-white-female-esque.
As for the boy, I couldn’t give a flying-tart and honestly was greatly relieved she took the stalker-freak off my hands. I didn’t give it another thought — oh, except when her fiancee, who was a good friend of mine, walked in on her on top of my ex. Oh yes, the O.C. has nothing on touring ballet companies for drama! Lucky for me I had just signed a contract with a ballet company back east, so I managed to escape that mess with little inconvenience to myself. But I was still two silk panties short!
So, in this birthday-gift-snagging and panty-thieving world, I suppose, one ought not to invest feeling in materiality; the frail skin of the onion needs lining lest it crack and crumble. But how this is achieved, I am certainly the last to know.
Claire Readhead is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at clr39@cornell.edu. Silk Blue Stockings appears alternate Mondays.