Stacey and her family volunteer every year at the Glass Slipper Project, a nonprofit organization that gives away free prom dresses and accessories to high school juniors and seniors in the Chicago area. This is another one that makes my heart smile. If Pretty in Pink taught us anything, it’s that no girl should ever miss her prom, Blaine. Except Molly Ringwald’s dress was tragic so I’m particularly on board with the idea of needy young ladies receiving a new or gently used dress so they don’t have to bust out their sewing machines.
A few days before the event Stacey calls me.
“What size do you wear?” she asks.
I already dislike where this is going. “Why?”
“Because I need to know what size T-shirt to get you for the Glass Slipper Project.”
I feel a quick whoosh of relief. “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t want a shirt.” In my brief tenure as a professional volunteer thus far, I’ve learned that the shirts are kind of a status symbol. Everyone shows up to volunteer in T-shirts advertising other charities where they’ve worked, kind of like concert tees, only for do-gooding. It’s like everyone’s trying to one-up another; I see your 5K Fun Run for MS tee and I’ll raise you one Half Marathon for Habitat for Humanity! Personally, I choose to break the cycle of one-upmanship by forgoing the swag.
I’m excited about the day because it sounds like fun and Stacey says everyone’s always so happy. Last year she was a personal shopper, meaning she helped various girls find their dresses, accessories, makeup, etc. However, she says the best job is doing checkout because you get to see what everyone has picked, which may work for me because I’m more nosy than helpful. Mind you, I remember her story from a while back when one of her girls didn’t think to wear any undergarments—any, at all—and Stacey spent her day functioning as a human shield. So when she mentioned the checkout area was the only place with chairs and I wouldn’t have to see anyone naked, I was sold.
“Actually, you do. Everyone wears matching T-shirts to indicate who’s staffing the event. Kind of like they do at Target.”
Nooooooo! Wearing matching T-shirts is the first step towards donning a costume. I panic a little. “What if I don’t want to wear a stupid shirt?”
Stacey’s all matter-of-fact. “You have to wear the shirt in order to volunteer.”
But I’m having none of this. “You know who made people wear matching shirts?” I ask. “Nazis, that’s who.”
“Is this really an issue for you?”
I begin to break into panic sweat. “Absolutely! One day it’s matching T-shirts and the next it’s me and a bunch of other assholes dressed as Stormtroopers and Ewoks and Yodas and shit going to Comic-Con. Matching T-shirts are the gateway drug to all things Dungeons and Dragons. So, no. No shirt. No, sir. No, thank you. I’m going to sit this one out.” Immaturity trumps altruism every time.
Every week Stacey and I meet our best girlfriends, Gina and Tracey, for lunch. To say that none of us suffers fools gladly would be an understatement, but no one quite takes this to the extent that Gina does. There’s a certain phrase that Gina reserves for the most obstinate, the most ridiculous, and the most frustrating among us. She reserves it for dire situations, like when dealing with a third-world call center. She’ll take whatever bullshit they spew and simply restates it so that whoever said it first can hear exactly how stupid they sound. Trouble’s afoot when you hear Gina begin a sentence with, “So what you’re telling me is…”
Stacey pauses a moment to collect her thoughts before she says, “So what you’re telling me is that you don’t want to help needy girls with their prom dresses because you’re afraid it will one day cause you to dress like C-3PO.”
I mull this over.
“I’ll take whatever size shirt you get.”
“All righty. See you on Saturday!”
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Taking feels good but giving feels great, even if you have to do it in a stupid shirt.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·O
The Evolution of a Bad Idea
10:15 P.M.—Hmm, getting late. I should get ready for bed.
10:30 P.M.—Hmm, getting even later. I should get ready for bed.
10:45 P.M.—Someone on the Internet is mistaken and I must express my displeasure with many uppercase letters and exclamation points.
11:00 P.M.—It’s really not getting any earlier, is it?
11:10 P.M.—Nightly skin inspection in bathroom mirror. Not perfect, but not bad for my age/lifestyle/aversion to sunscreen.
11:11 P.M.—Hey, what would happen if I used a magnifying mirror during my inspection?
11:12 P.M.—SWEET JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!
11:13 P.M.—Reinspect by light of bedside lamp. Ah, all better.
11:14 P.M.—But what if I put in a brighter bulb?
11:15 P.M.—IS FURRY BEAST! KILL IT! KIIIIIIIIL IT!
11:16 P.M.—“What do you think I’m doing? I’m looking at my skin in this mirror. And I’ve either got to wax this mustache or start giving rides on it, ha ha!”
11:16 P.M.—“What do you mean, ‘I don’t think that expression means what you think it means’?”
11:17 P.M.—Oh. Then that man at Target with the FREE MUSTACHE RIDES logo was wearing a very dirty shirt.
11:18 P.M.—“I would like to amend my previous statement. I need to wax this mustache or learn to twirl it, ha ha!”
11:19 P.M.—I should tweeze this thing.
11:20 P.M.—I should find my tweezers.
11:21 P.M.—Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
11:22 P.M.—Screw this. I need a professional waxing. Must make an appointment.
11:25 P.M.—Can’t. Stop. Fondling. Mustache.
11:30 P.M.—Fine, I’ll do the goddamned thing myself.
11:40 P.M.—Can’t find new tub of wax I purchased for just this very occasion, so locate old container. Is very old. Is possibly the exact same tub that Moses’ wife used to remove her unwanted facial hair. (Desert light is unforgiving.)
11:41 P.M.—But it’s wax. It’s not like it could go bad, right?
11:42 P.M.—“I’m not ‘banging around and keeping you awake.’ I’m doing
