The two most important lessons that any man learns in life are to keep a firm hand on his money and a light hand on his razor. It seems simple, save for the future and don't cut yourself. But men, with a penchant for boisterous spending and shooting themselves in the feet, can spend a whole lifetime learning this lesson.
Going through this move has been filled with a whole slew of other lessons. For the first time I am living alone and have nobody to answer to. I can leave the door open when I'm in the bathroom. I can leave a pair of shoes in the middle of the floor for a week. I can eat raw cookie dough out of the package in my underwear while watching the Today show. The lesson being, I can design my own life and I don't need to answer to anyone about it.
So, when my manager at work asked what it is I do every morning that requires two hours between the time I wake up and the time I go to work I was at a loss. Yes, I live five minutes walking distance from work. I could, theoretically get out of bed, walk out the door, and be to work in five minutes. However, explaining why I can't is trickier. I feel like Lucy prompted with the ever daunting "esplain this to me" scenario.
How can I explain to him, a straight man of all things, the importance of conditioning my hair twice, exfoliating my pores, drinking espresso while watching Kathy Lee and Hoda, watching approximately twenty minutes of amateur porn, picking out an outfit for the five minute walk across the street. Having to explain myself to someone suddenly made my life seem very silly. These things that map my day, that make up the very core of my being may not seem important to anyone else but they mean the world to me.
It's always so frustrating to explain to people who wear sweatpants to work why I need to put on a blazer and feel good when I walk out the door, why I wear $560 Prada loafers to serve food to people, why I will spend $5.70 every single day on a double grande nonfat dirty chai from Starbucks, why--with an apartment full of wines and spirits-- I will go to Trump tower and spend $26.00 on a cocktail after work. I know I'm only server in a barely heard about hotel restaurant. I'm the lowest on a tier of d-list gays. I'm in the caste of gays that bring you other sizes, bring you martinis, and bring you a pillow for your flight. The service gays.
I've been thinking about it and these industries are really run by gay people. It's almost a throwback to victorian hired help where men were hired for being tall and handsome into servitude. And they had pride in their position. And if my looks are all I got, why the hell not enjoy them?
Why not have pride in how I look and what I wear? So what, I serve food and I'm supposed to wear fuck ugly clogs and Hanes socks every day? If I'm gonna drop five hundos on some shoes I'm gonna get some use out of them. I go to work at the restaurant five days a week and dammit I'm gonna look fabulous doing it.
Obviously, from this post you can tell I still haven't learned to keep a firm hand on my money, but I assure you I never cut myself shaving.
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