My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [39]
“If I were worried, I wouldn’t have invited you,” she assures me. “I want you to come with me, and we’re going to have a fantastic time.”
“Cool.” I ease back into the couch, and we resume our program.
A few minutes later, I realize there’s something still bothering me. “Hey, no one’s going to be naked in this, right?”
Stacey does the verbal equivalent of patting me on the head. “Of course not, peanut. Of course not.”
Before I begin to primp for my big night out, I run down to the basement to TiVo 24 and The Bachelor. Just because I’m trying to smarten up doesn’t mean I’m not me anymore, right?
Since I’m going to the cast party, I take special care with my appearance. I mean, really, is Carla Gugino going to want to be BFF with some chick who can’t be bothered to curl her hair and don three shades of eye shadow? I don’t think so.
(Sidebar: If I ever have a CAT scan, I’m betting it will show a slightly shriveled part of my cerebellum that causes me to say everything I think when in the vicinity of fame. Next to it, there will be a dented piece that houses my absolute belief that every famous person will want to be my friend, given the opportunity.)
Since I plan to go to a lot of shows this winter, I’ve bought a proper theater outfit since my daily cold-weather accoutrement of track pants and pullover fleece jackets won’t cut it. For someone whose book covers feature dresses and purses and footwear, you might think nothing makes me happier than shopping.
Not true.78
The truth is, my laziness manifests itself in my wardrobe, too. I don’t own thirty Lacostes because I love them more than any other shirt ever made79; I own them because they’re cute, they’re colorful, and they fit well. This explains why I have six pairs of the same khaki shorts. I have twelve different sundresses that I wear on tour, and they’re all cut identically. I mix and match each of them with a solid cardigan, of which I own seven. I’m fortunate that the preppy look’s timeless because if I’d become attached to parachute pants and Flashdance sweatshirts, I’d be screwed right about now.
I bought a long blackwatch plaid, pleated wool skirt and a navy V-neck sweater, which I’ve paired with a pointy-collared, crisp white blouse. “Flattering” is the best description of the cut, and the fabrics should keep me warm in even the draftiest of theaters. I feel cute wearing this, despite the whole “world’s oldest Catholic school student” vibe.
Before I slip on my skirt and pull on my sweater, I’m predressed in a stretchy black camisole, a tan girdle, black boots, and black leggings. My hair is up in hot rollers.
I have to laugh as I glance at myself in the mirror: Worst. Superhero. Ever.
When we arrive at the Goodman, I stop by the snack bar first, even though we’ve just come from dinner. I’m pleased that they have the white wine I like and delighted by the big cookies. But if the ushers are to be believed, I’m not supposed to take either of them into the theater.
“I can’t bring snacks?” I ask Stacey.
“No, you have to finish them in the lobby,” she says, gesturing toward the garbage cans.
“Snacks and entertainment go together like chalk and cheese.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re using that expression wrong.”
Huh. I guess that’s why it never made sense. “Okay, fine. Well, at the movies you can eat popcorn. In fact, they encourage it.”
“This isn’t the movies.”
“THAT’S why plays will never win! Ha! Movies-1, plays-0.”
Stacey gives me a good-natured eye roll. “This also isn’t a competition.”
I gulp down my wine and deposit my glass in the trash. Just as we’re about to enter, I spot a girl carrying the most awesome tote bag I’ve ever seen. I nudge Stacey. “Check that out.”
Stacey lapses into LOLcat, uncharacteristic for her, but an unfortunate side effect of being around me too much. “Ooh, want. Do want!”
The spectacular tote in question features a line drawing of Shakespeare and a caption that reads, “Shakespeare got to get paid, son.”80