Southern Lady Code: Essays(27)

She says, “See that? That’s calcification. We don’t know what causes it, but it’s nothing. It’s like soap scum. I’ll show this to the doctor and send you on your way.”

I hug her and thank her for being so nice to me and my dumb boobs.

And no, radiology technicians are not supposed to tell you about their findings or lack of findings, but here’s where getting a weathered technician comes into play. In my experience, older women have been empathetic because they’ve all found themselves in my exact literal position: getting called back for more tests when we’re as cancerous as Irish Spring.





YOUNG LADIES,


            LISTEN TO ME





If you don’t know what to do with the rest of your life, make your bed. If you’re going to be a couch potato, at least fluff the pillows. If you can’t afford pearls, red nail polish is your best accessory. If you don’t have time to do your nails, smile and stand up straight.

Keep calm and check your carry-on bag. Wait patiently and read a book.

Texting a minute before you’re scheduled to meet someone to say you’ll be there soon is not being on time. Flip-flops are not shoes. Leggings are not pants. Dying your hair gray is not a good idea. And neither are those inner-arm, rib-cage, and finger tattoos.

If your friend tells you a secret about another friend, she has told another friend a secret about you. Just because someone knocks on your front door doesn’t mean you have to open it. If you have to keep telling folks you’re not sick, you are sick. If a deliveryman packs two forks, you’re overeating. If an item is 75 percent off, there’s a reason, so don’t buy it. If someone asks you a question that’s too personal, say, “Once, in college.”

Try to live a life worth impersonating by a drag queen. Name your Starbucks self Rihanna. Flash yourself in your mirror. Take as many bikini pool shots as you possibly can because Sarong City is closer than you think.





SEVEN THINGS


            I’M DOING INSTEAD


            OF A NECK LIFT





Contouring: Contouring means putting brown blush on my neck. And my jawline. Or where my jawline used to be. I take a flat-end brush and draw lines from my earlobes to my chin. Or where my chin used to be. I could also use a brown cream stick that looks like a glue stick. If they come up with a glue stick that glues my ears behind my head, I will buy that.

Anyhoo, I blend. It’s very important to blend. Blending the brown lines makes me look natural. “Natural” is Southern Lady Code for pretty without trying too hard. To me, in the eighties, Dolly Parton looked natural. Trying too hard would be getting a neck lift.

If I blend well enough, I’ll achieve a sort of smoke and mirrors illusion. My neck will look like a tobacco-stained cigarette pouch and my face a shiny clasp if I highlight with shimmer. These days, matte is out and illumination is in. We women are supposed to glow like those Cocoon aliens who skinny-dipped with Wilford Brimley. Good news: If you don’t know this movie or actor, you don’t need to contour.

Camera angling: When posing for a picture, I no longer say, “Cheese.” I say, “Higher.” I instruct the picture taker to hold the camera like a pi?ata. If he doesn’t understand my instructions, I scream them. “Higher! HIGHER! Hold the camera like a pi?ata!” If I want to be sophisticated, I’ll say, “Hold the camera like a chandelier.”

The photographer’s hands and arms should be up over his head like a charging chimpanzee’s. He should not be able to see the camera lens. He should tip his phone like an auction paddle and click.

My best angle is that taken by a hovering drone. Scroll through my albums and you’ll think I’ve been under NSA surveillance. But don’t I look gorgeous? All my face flesh has fallen back to reveal my bone structure. Just look at my cheekbones. And my neck. What neck?

Top-knotting: To top-knot, I spent two years growing my hair past my shoulders so I can now sweep it up onto the top of my head and twirl it into a ball like a ski-mask pompom. My hair ball can’t be too tight because then it looks like a bun. Buns are unnerving. People see a bun and fear I’m about to pull a ruler or hypodermic needle out from behind my back. A top knot should be loose but structurally sound, like a bird’s nest. People should want to cup it, to see if it fits in their hand. But if it’s too big, people will want to smack it like a Family Feud buzzer.

The point is, a top knot pulls my face up. Like bootstraps. My face is the boot. A top knot also draws focus away from my neck like a star on the top of a Christmas tree draws attention away from a tree skirt that is disheveled and lumpy from cats. My neck is the skirt. I don’t know what the cats are, but I’ll make an appointment with the good dermatologist and have them checked out.

Mock-turtling: Although it’s tempting to imagine myself as an ear of corn shielded only by silk, once I start buying “lightweight” summer turtlenecks, I can never go back. They make turtleneck swimsuits now too, you know. Lands’ End puts bikini bottoms and matching waterproof turtlenecks on catalog models whose necks are as firm and as long as Greek Revival columns. The swim tops aren’t marketed as neck girdles; they’re sold as sun protection or “rash guards.” But turtleneck swimtops are rash guards the way Colgate travel-size vibrators are “electric toothbrushes.”