but it’s best to keep the ins and outs of my heretical city life a secret. My family has visited me here, but they’ve never been inside my apartment. If they want to believe that I own a single piece of furniture that wasn’t found on the street, let them. If I happen to innocently buttress that fallacy, it’s just because I was reared right. White lies are incredibly polite.
Sometimes, though, while juggling my two sets of social mores, I drop a ball. I forget to place my fork and knife toward ten o’clockto signify I’m finished eating. I forget to rip off a bite of bread
before
I butter it. I forget that burps aren’t acknowledged with fist bumps. Mix-ups such as these are how I came to receive a gentle reminder in the mail. The hawk eye of my aunt misses nothing.
desk and flipped through the pages of
How to Be a Lady
with greedy laughter. He is not an obsequious person. He’s an overworked, underpaid theater critic who finds his only solace in the free dinners occasionally offered to him at cabaret clubs. A summation of his worldview: after the cater-waiters at an art event noticed Adam stalking them, they launched a campaign of avoidance, rushing past him with trays held high above their heads, to which Adam responded by giving chase and then returning to me with a mouthful of mini crab cakes, saying, “They expect me to have shame.”
He landed on a page at random, pointed to a highlighted passage, and read, in his best Blanche DuBois, “A lady never adjusts her bra or bustline within view of other people.”
Then he paused, shifted his countenance, and said sympathetically, “Oh, Jane, sweetheart—you actually do that a lot.”
What? No I don’t. I mean, the wires are uncomfortable. And no bra ever truly fits. So sure, sometimes I might reposition a boob here or there just to make sure everything’s in order and—oh, crap; I
do
do that a lot. I guess it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would notice … that I was digging my thumbs into the sides of my breasts and tugging at them?!? Of course they notice! Duh: If I’m not looking at you, you can still see me. Hearing Adam say as much out loud was like finally hearing the answer to that riddle about the guy who killed two hundred people when he turned off a light. Duh: Heworks in a lighthouse. Not only does it make perfect sense, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. What next? Are you gonna tell me that I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter isn’t butter?
I had been prepared to dismiss my aunt’s gesture outright. But now it held water. What other nasty habits was I
not
getting away with? How far from the flock had I strayed? I told Adam and the rest in our peanut gallery to buzz off, and then I stashed the book in my messenger bag so I could pore over it later in private.
How to Be a Lady
is a loosely organized collection of one- to two-line maxims: “A lady does this,” “A lady does not do that.” The words “should” or “might” do not appear. The author, Ms. Candace Simpson-Giles, offers edicts, not suggestions. Her text is law. It
was
brought down from Mount Sinai, probably in a tasteful leather valise.
The directions and admonishments follow, one after another, in a long mechanical list. So many rules and regulations! So much to remember! Does Ms. Simpson-Giles really follow all of these? How could she get anything done if constantly preoccupied by the way to do it? I imagine her spinning one way and the other in sensible slacks until her hard drive overrides and she puts the mop in the oven and cleans the floor with a green-bean casserole.
Rules. Pshaw! I’ve always had a problem with authority. During a recent Thanksgiving dinner, Mom and I got into a disagreement regarding whether or not she’d told me which trivet on the table was for the succotash. Then she turned to the crowded dining room and announced with a smile, “I swear, Jane would argue with Jesus!” Well, sure, if he chastised me for forgetting
Sometimes, though, while juggling my two sets of social mores, I drop a ball. I forget to place my fork and knife toward ten o’clockto signify I’m finished eating. I forget to rip off a bite of bread
before
I butter it. I forget that burps aren’t acknowledged with fist bumps. Mix-ups such as these are how I came to receive a gentle reminder in the mail. The hawk eye of my aunt misses nothing.
desk and flipped through the pages of
How to Be a Lady
with greedy laughter. He is not an obsequious person. He’s an overworked, underpaid theater critic who finds his only solace in the free dinners occasionally offered to him at cabaret clubs. A summation of his worldview: after the cater-waiters at an art event noticed Adam stalking them, they launched a campaign of avoidance, rushing past him with trays held high above their heads, to which Adam responded by giving chase and then returning to me with a mouthful of mini crab cakes, saying, “They expect me to have shame.”
He landed on a page at random, pointed to a highlighted passage, and read, in his best Blanche DuBois, “A lady never adjusts her bra or bustline within view of other people.”
Then he paused, shifted his countenance, and said sympathetically, “Oh, Jane, sweetheart—you actually do that a lot.”
What? No I don’t. I mean, the wires are uncomfortable. And no bra ever truly fits. So sure, sometimes I might reposition a boob here or there just to make sure everything’s in order and—oh, crap; I
do
do that a lot. I guess it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would notice … that I was digging my thumbs into the sides of my breasts and tugging at them?!? Of course they notice! Duh: If I’m not looking at you, you can still see me. Hearing Adam say as much out loud was like finally hearing the answer to that riddle about the guy who killed two hundred people when he turned off a light. Duh: Heworks in a lighthouse. Not only does it make perfect sense, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. What next? Are you gonna tell me that I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter isn’t butter?
I had been prepared to dismiss my aunt’s gesture outright. But now it held water. What other nasty habits was I
not
getting away with? How far from the flock had I strayed? I told Adam and the rest in our peanut gallery to buzz off, and then I stashed the book in my messenger bag so I could pore over it later in private.
How to Be a Lady
is a loosely organized collection of one- to two-line maxims: “A lady does this,” “A lady does not do that.” The words “should” or “might” do not appear. The author, Ms. Candace Simpson-Giles, offers edicts, not suggestions. Her text is law. It
was
brought down from Mount Sinai, probably in a tasteful leather valise.
The directions and admonishments follow, one after another, in a long mechanical list. So many rules and regulations! So much to remember! Does Ms. Simpson-Giles really follow all of these? How could she get anything done if constantly preoccupied by the way to do it? I imagine her spinning one way and the other in sensible slacks until her hard drive overrides and she puts the mop in the oven and cleans the floor with a green-bean casserole.
Rules. Pshaw! I’ve always had a problem with authority. During a recent Thanksgiving dinner, Mom and I got into a disagreement regarding whether or not she’d told me which trivet on the table was for the succotash. Then she turned to the crowded dining room and announced with a smile, “I swear, Jane would argue with Jesus!” Well, sure, if he chastised me for forgetting
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