Square

Last week I auditioned for the role of a 19 year old street-walker. When I originally saw the audition post, I thought to myself, "Hey! That's totally me! I'd make a great street-walker!" Because I thought a street-walker was just, you know, a hard-core rocker chick who's run away from home or something. I never ran away from home, but I did go through a hard-core rocker chick phase. Remember? I call it my Black Period. You don't remember? Come on, we all remember the days of the shaved head and spiked dog collar, right? Back when my wardrobe consisted exclusively of ripped fishnet and vinyl? Remember that? No? Well, here's a little photo reminder:

The night before the audition, Poompy informs me that a street-walker is not a hard-core rocker chick, but in fact, a prostitute. But since I've never been a prostitute, and have no interest in dressing like one, I decide to ignore him and stick with my original idea of what I think a street-walker is. You know, the kind of girl you'd see cadging change on 3rd St. Promenade (Santa Monica, CA, folks.) Besides, I think to myself, since I'm such a little rocker chick myself, it'll be easy to find an outfit!

The next morning, I'm getting ready for my audition and I'm feeling fairly confident* when I suddenly realize I have nothing to wear. Now, this is not the Nothing To Wear realization that comes after trying on 17 outfits before I stomp my foot and whine out for the world's pity, "I have nothing to weeeeeeeear!!!". This is the Nothing To Wear when I actually do not own anything appropriate for the event in question. I've managed to scrounge up an old vinyl mini-skirt, but the only fishnets I can find are brand-new and from Victoria's Secret and I am so not about to rip holes in them. I found a black t-shirt, but where on earth is my spiked dog collar? And the worst part? The girl who once owned thirteen pairs of heavy, steel-toe, rock and roll, motherf$#@ing Ass Kicking boots now owns none.

And it suddenly occurs to me. I've become a total square. I'm digging through my closet and there's nothing but dresses! And skirts! Gone are the ripped fishnets, the vinyl pants, the studded belts and home-made t-shirts with such witty phrases as "Fuck Bush" scrawled in sharpie across the front. I'm surrounded by pinks and floral patterns and gauzy, girly thingies. My shoes are all ballet flats. I have twenty pairs** of ballet flats and not a single pair of boots. And I'm suddenly horrified.

Since I obviously have no business doing so, I decide not to go to the audition after all.

Two minutes later I'm breathing normally again and pulling on my most tattered jeans (which actually aren't tattered at all), my red chuck taylors and my ratty old sweatshirt which, if you look closely, still reads "I'd rather be dead" across the front in faded Sharpie. I pull my (girly, shiny, blond) hair into a very messy ponytail and smear on a ton of black eyeliner and briefly consider painting my nails black before I decide I don't have time, and I'm out the door. I've decided it would be better to show up for the audition looking like a homeless teen runaway, than not go at all just because somewhere inside of me that little rocker chick has been buried beneath a pile of pink dresses.

Now, a couple of interesting things happen. On the one hand, there is a little voice in my head laughing at what a square I've become and telling me that 1) I have absolutely no right going to an audition for a 19 year old street-walker 2) I'm about to make a terrible fool of myself and 3) I am much better off auditioning for pretty blond girl-next-door types. On the other hand, I can't help but notice how damn comfortable I am walking down the street in my chucks and tattered hoodie, my eyes haloed in black. Not just that I'm comfortable, but that if feels really good to be wearing what I used to consider my "uniform". I expected this girl with the collection of pink dresses to feel like a poseur walking down the street dressed like a hooligan. But instead I just feel like myself.

When I arrive at the audition, it is clear that I stick out like a sore thumb. But not because I'm too square. Quite the opposite, actually. Every single other girl auditioning for the same role is wearing a pretty, flowy sundress with color-coordinated cork wedges. They've all got their hair perfectly coiffed and their makeup applied flawlessly. I look like a drowning puppy in comparison. I notice one girl who has made an attempt to dress for the role, but it's obvious she bought her outfit at Hot Topic the night before and she just looks ridiculous. I, on the other hand, look like a genuine homeless hooligan.

I take some comfort in the fact that, despite my apparent square-ish ways, I still managed to be the most genuine hard-ass chick at the audition. I suppose that's just it. It isn't the clothes that make us who we are. It's the way we feel in them. Or something. Fuck it. I don't know. I'm gonna go paint my nails black and put on some more eyeliner while I prance around in a dress and ballet flats. I might be a square, but I look damn good when I wear too much eyeliner.

*I haven't been able to bring myself to go to an audition since I didn't get that last job. Remember? I've been in sort of a grieving period and I've been too depressed to go out. PLEASE refrain from lecturing me on how I'm only hurting myself and I'm being self-defeating and blah blah blah. Trust me, I've been lecturing myself enough for all of us. But hey! I scraped myself together for one audition last week! And I didn't bare my ass to the playwright or trip and fall on my face, so Rock and Roll, right?.

**Serious exaggeration.