Between whiskey shots at Tritone last Friday night, my friend, Samson told me that I was high maintenance. I scoffed in disbelief. Me? Please. I don't manicure my nails and I always go dutch on a date. No, Sansom told me, you are -- you can't live without the finer things in life. I was stunned into silence. Another drink please, bartender. I let the cool liquid go down low and pondered the possibility that perhaps I am high maintence. In this world where women are classified as low, medium, or high, where do I measure up? And if I am really high maintenence, than why does this thought make me feel so low?
The next day, while doing homework at 41239, I noticed that every piece of furniture in this girl's room was brand new, shipped in from antique dealers from out of town. The bedding was labeled Ralph Lauren, the closet was stocked with clothes (tags still on), and there was a little canvas bag tucked cutely in the closet displaying a cornicopia of Prada shoes I thought back to my $10 dining room table that wobbles when you place a plate on it and my pit-stained, pink turtleneck and I had to fight the urge to call up Sansom and yell: am I still high maintenance, mo-fo? Eat my easy-going ass!
I know a lot of high maintence chicks, and I have always thought them to be in a separate class. Take Carlotta: she just flew off to Montreal last weekend to catch the Celine Dion concert with her boyfriend, McNasty. Let's not even mention the Cristal he bought her and the ho's he rented for the evening. I would never ask a boyfriend to do this for me. I would definitely insist on splitting the cost.
But as Harry once told Sally, am I the worst kind -- a high maintence woman who thinks she's low maintenance? Are these just the voices in my head, deluding my thoughts once again? So what if I am the most princessy of them all? After all, I did just have a tissy fit because I bought the wrong kind of crackers (cracked pepper) to go with my brie and apples. I looked down low inside myself and decided to high-tail my life onto the right track. Reconcile with myself that my body is calling for a nice Jewish boy in Wharton to up my stock...
...ings. He'll wear blue-button down shirts to shabbat dinners at my family's house. He'd party hardy in college and switch to Paxil when he graduates. I'll sing Barbra Stresisand from the roof-tops of Jersey and stick out my (newly done) nose proudly and sound my barbaric yawp: yes, I am a jap! My last name is Katz -- it's destiny.
I called Sansom two days later and told him to meet me at Buddakan for dinner at 8. I ordered the lobster and had to send it back ten minutes later because there was too much butter in the sauce. I ordered the most expensive bottle of wine off the menu and sipped it slowly as I made Sansom list what celebrities I resembled and why. And when the bill came I picked at my silk-tipped nails and let Sansom pay. I didn't know if it was the new Chanel moisturizer or the glow emmanating off my skin -- an after-effect of being correct -- but I sure looked great for such a low maintenance chick. In a single gal's life, there are many highs and lows, but there is no natural high greater than the knowledge of self-awareness...
For next week's Q&A (think "Dear Abby," putz), send your questions to Sex in the Campus at street-style@dailypennsylvanian.com.
