go back to Eye Guys and order more green lenses. If Josh and I fall in love, I may remain a shiksa but skip the contacts and just go back to glasses. Then I met up with Krista back in my hood for a manicure/pedicure. Our conversation over toes painted
Chocolate Kisses
made it apparent my closet does not reflect the sweet, petite I am pretending to be.
“They all sound great,” I tell Josh of the appetizers. Knowing there will also be entrées, I worry now about eating so much food. “You choose. Whatever you want works for me.”
“Let’s go for the lobster,” he says.
“Perfect.” I smile. “I love lobster anything.”
“See, I bet you
other
women would have just wanted that one because it’s the most expensive,” he says. “But you’re really considerate. I appreciate that.”
I smile to show how considerate I am, considering my more than acquaintanceship with the
other
(I’m guessing Jewish) women. I know, for a fact, that this
other
would have also encouraged Josh to get whatever he wanted. Yet from her it would not have been appreciated.
What I can appreciate is the power of brand building. Don’t let anyone ever tell you first impressions aren’t everything. See, your brand stands for something to your customers. They can relate to who you are because somehow you’ve created a connection with their soul. And you can control that perception.
“A bottle of wine?” asks Josh. “Or . . . I know. I bet you want a mixed drink. Vodka tonic, maybe?”
Why did he have to mention Krista’s drink? Oy. I feel like there’s a shiksa code and I haven’t read the handbook. With nothing to wear, Krista took me shopping. She, too, was more than impressed with China Grill, only wanting to know if Josh was able to get the reservation for tonight today.
“Try this.” Her pink manicured hand slipped through the door of the fitting room to hand me a pale green cashmere cardigan.
I looked at the label. “What’s P/S?”
“Petite/Small. And over that cream-colored cami,” she called behind, as her heels click-clicked back to the sales floor at Ann Taylor LOFT. I often pass it, just blocks from my apartment on Eighty-seventh Street, but never go in. Being there with Krista was like having my own personal shopper.
Unbuttoning the little cardigan, I slipped my arms through the soft three-quarter-length sleeves. Petite/Small. I’m withering away. I was so nervous about being a fake, I’d eaten less all week feeling happy about my upcoming date with Josh than when I was just legitimately sad about the breakup with Peter.
“Do you have pearls? And a headband?” she asked later, back at my apartment when I tried on Spring Shiksa to model. We looked at all the same racks, but Krista pulled items I didn’t see. It’s not that I don’t buy nice clothes. Because I do. And it’s not that I don’t spend enough because, believe me, I do. But something’s always off. Only I never know just what.
“I really look different. And I do look like a shiksa,” I stated for reassurance, for prancing across my living room, I confess, I felt different . . . and beautiful. “I don’t look Jewish, do I? I mean I do look gentile, don’t I?”
“You may look like a shiksa, but you sound like a neurotic Jewish girl who grew up on the Upper West Side. Stop with all the moosh-e-gas.”
“Moose gas?
What?
”
“Craziness,” explains my gentile friend who’s obviously cramming with my handbook.
“Oh.
Mishegas
,” I tell her, and it sure is. Only I don’t know what’s crazier: my pretending to be a shiksa or Krista acting like a Jew.
“So, Aimee,” Josh’s voice snaps me back. “The drink. What’s your fancy?”
Oy vey.
He doesn’t want to know about my fancy. One glass of wine, and I’m out.
“Ummm, wine is nice for me,” I say. “Unless . . . uh, you want a cocktail?” Cocktail. Bonus points. Way to go, Aimee!
“Does your family do cocktail hour?” he asks, the question putting the kibosh
Chocolate Kisses
made it apparent my closet does not reflect the sweet, petite I am pretending to be.
“They all sound great,” I tell Josh of the appetizers. Knowing there will also be entrées, I worry now about eating so much food. “You choose. Whatever you want works for me.”
“Let’s go for the lobster,” he says.
“Perfect.” I smile. “I love lobster anything.”
“See, I bet you
other
women would have just wanted that one because it’s the most expensive,” he says. “But you’re really considerate. I appreciate that.”
I smile to show how considerate I am, considering my more than acquaintanceship with the
other
(I’m guessing Jewish) women. I know, for a fact, that this
other
would have also encouraged Josh to get whatever he wanted. Yet from her it would not have been appreciated.
What I can appreciate is the power of brand building. Don’t let anyone ever tell you first impressions aren’t everything. See, your brand stands for something to your customers. They can relate to who you are because somehow you’ve created a connection with their soul. And you can control that perception.
“A bottle of wine?” asks Josh. “Or . . . I know. I bet you want a mixed drink. Vodka tonic, maybe?”
Why did he have to mention Krista’s drink? Oy. I feel like there’s a shiksa code and I haven’t read the handbook. With nothing to wear, Krista took me shopping. She, too, was more than impressed with China Grill, only wanting to know if Josh was able to get the reservation for tonight today.
“Try this.” Her pink manicured hand slipped through the door of the fitting room to hand me a pale green cashmere cardigan.
I looked at the label. “What’s P/S?”
“Petite/Small. And over that cream-colored cami,” she called behind, as her heels click-clicked back to the sales floor at Ann Taylor LOFT. I often pass it, just blocks from my apartment on Eighty-seventh Street, but never go in. Being there with Krista was like having my own personal shopper.
Unbuttoning the little cardigan, I slipped my arms through the soft three-quarter-length sleeves. Petite/Small. I’m withering away. I was so nervous about being a fake, I’d eaten less all week feeling happy about my upcoming date with Josh than when I was just legitimately sad about the breakup with Peter.
“Do you have pearls? And a headband?” she asked later, back at my apartment when I tried on Spring Shiksa to model. We looked at all the same racks, but Krista pulled items I didn’t see. It’s not that I don’t buy nice clothes. Because I do. And it’s not that I don’t spend enough because, believe me, I do. But something’s always off. Only I never know just what.
“I really look different. And I do look like a shiksa,” I stated for reassurance, for prancing across my living room, I confess, I felt different . . . and beautiful. “I don’t look Jewish, do I? I mean I do look gentile, don’t I?”
“You may look like a shiksa, but you sound like a neurotic Jewish girl who grew up on the Upper West Side. Stop with all the moosh-e-gas.”
“Moose gas?
What?
”
“Craziness,” explains my gentile friend who’s obviously cramming with my handbook.
“Oh.
Mishegas
,” I tell her, and it sure is. Only I don’t know what’s crazier: my pretending to be a shiksa or Krista acting like a Jew.
“So, Aimee,” Josh’s voice snaps me back. “The drink. What’s your fancy?”
Oy vey.
He doesn’t want to know about my fancy. One glass of wine, and I’m out.
“Ummm, wine is nice for me,” I say. “Unless . . . uh, you want a cocktail?” Cocktail. Bonus points. Way to go, Aimee!
“Does your family do cocktail hour?” he asks, the question putting the kibosh
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