The illustrated ramblings of a Midwestern twenty- something
Things my boyfriend mumbles while half asleep, interpreted.
[Thank you, Lee, for letting me share (nay, encouraging me to share) these potentially embarrasing quotations of yours.]
Thing my boyfriend mumbled: “My vocal corsets are too tight.”
My interpretation: This sounds like a common complaint of women participating in neck corsetry— an imagined fashion craze among wealthy Victorian ladies. Neck corsetry would have been a way women conveyed high status, distinguishing themselves from all those common, thick necked hussies who allowed themselves to wave their tongues freely. The trend would be short-lived (much like many of its adherents) due to the obvious choking risk it posed.
Thing my boyfriend mumbled: “There should be a bar with monkey bars, and you should have to climb over a flaming pit of tigers to exit.”
My interpretation: A trial by fire— literally! This tiger-based sobriety test would be an excellent way to keep drunks off the road. Since voters in my city want to curtail public transportation, and my state as a whole is infamous for the animal cruelties practiced therein (We’re number one… in number of puppy mills!), I wouldn’t suprised if this “flame-proof tiger brethalyzer” idea caught on. Except that I imagine flame-proof tigers are pretty expensive.
Thing my boyfriend mumbled: (Something about waterboarding a fish.)
My interpretation: I can try to illustrate this, but I can’t begin to understand why anyone would really torture a fish. What useful information can possibly be gleaned by interrogating a fish?
Thing my boyfriend mumbled: Chupacabras should judge chili-eating contests.
My interpretation: They would probably give it a try as a way to improve their reputation among humans, but their plan would backfire when it proved that they were indeed lifestock thieves. (Also, chupacabras are some of the least believable cryptids ever. No one can even agree on what they look like, so I apologize for the quality of the sketch.)
Things I suspect about hand modeling.
Occasionally I’m told that I should become a hand model. Though this advice contains an implied compliment about my hands, it ultimately makes me uncomfortable.
My unease can be explained by the fact that pretty much all I know about hand modeling I learned from reading the novel Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk, in which the protagonist, a model who becomes horribly disfigured in an accident, ponders a comeback as a hand model. It’s been a while, but I remember hand modeling being mentioned contemptuously; it’s as if hand modeling work is one of the worst indignities this model has to suffer as a disfigured person. Basically, hand modeling: regular models trying to cling on past their prime as obscure voice over work: washed-up actors trying to pay for their blow habits. I internalized, and never really questioned, the idea that hand modeling is the refuge of those whose very lives are over.
Though I consider my very life far from over (I have my career trajectory planned out, at least until age 30) I need something to help me pay for my expensive dreams. Hand modeling still isn’t completely out of the question, though I’d have to limit my lifestyle options.
I have questions about hand modeling, but few resources to consult; hand modeling seems to be a little-hyped profession. Do hand models need to conform to narrow, constraining standards of beauty like other types of models? If so, it might be too late to launch my career; I’m going on 23 and so I’m over the modeling hill in general. As beautiful as my hands may be, they are no longer the lithe, nubile hands of an underweight 17 year-old. I don’t want know what the retouching team might think.
If I were to become a hand model, I’m sure my professional life would be completely different than what I’m used to now, which would take adjustment. For example, instead of giving out a stylishly laid out resume detailing my professional and academic successes thoroughly but succinctly, I would be presenting employers with a portfolio of awkward, soft-focus hand portraits. That way, they would know I have extensive experience in doing the following sorts of things within a controlled studio setting:
pointing at my fake engagement/wedding ring
shaking hands with members of different races
chidingly/playfully wagging my finger
spinning a basketball on a single finger
pretending to have just voted in a fledgling Middle-Eastern democracy
Unfortunately, the paranoid part of myself can’t help but suspect that talking about hand modeling would attract the creepiest of creeps, with the most John Waters-y of John Waters mustaches.
Even if hand modeling is nothing like my more wild imaginings, I know I’d need to keep my hands unusually well-preserved. Therein lies my problem: I don’t like to sacrifice practicality for the sake of beauty. You’ll never see fake nails on my hands, for example; I like being able to perform everyday tasks. I guess I just refuse to put my hands on some sort of hand pedestal. (Unless I’d have to carry a hand pedestal, I guess?) So, unless I hear a really compelling argument about why hand modeling is a career worth sacrificing comfort and freedom to pursue, I’ll probably pass on trying it out after all.
No regrets (on 12/4/11 at 2 AM).