Author: Christine Elias

Lileo. I like to pop into this store just for fun. And it’s plenty of fun until I take a look at the prices. Oh, I know full well that the items are expensive but that doesn’t stop me from fingering the fashions lovingly and turning over the price tags, only to be reminded, yet again, that I should have considered a more lucrative career path. Happiness be damned, I need raw Japanese denim covering my ass. But alas, I must settle for the cooked kind.

Okay, it’s true that I am no stranger to three-digit jeans. (I am not proud of my shallowness, but damn they look good.) In fact, I have a few pairs of almost identical jeans that cost far more than any sane person would pay. (Start rationalization/ But they were on sale and I really have a hard time finding jeans that fit well. /End rationalization.)

But high three-digits? No. Just, no. Do I want Naked and Famous jeans. Yes. But I also want to pay my mortgage and visit New York where I can ogle even more clothing I can’t afford.

Sometimes I do succumb and splurge on things I can’t live without. I own a butter-soft designer leather biker jacket that makes me feel almost as stylish as Gwyneth Paltrow. It’s stunning. It looks great on me. I love it. I often admire it in my closet.

But the stupidest thing? I rarely wear it. It’s almost like it’s too nice to put on. I wear my $39 jean jacket from Old Navy far more often. If anyone can explain to me why I do this, I am open to the answer.

No doubt you’ve read the articles by Samantha Brick— you know, the woman who is just too beautiful?

I am not going to weigh-in on her beauty and apparent conceit. I want to talk about myself. (Sarcasm, if you missed it :))

When I was a teenager, there was a Beauty Pageant held by a social group in my ethnic community. Beauty Pageants were not my thing then or now — I mean, really — but some of my cousins were entering and it was suggested that I enter. Oh, my sides!

I did not. (The heels were going to be an issue, among several other things, including my disdain for the objectification of women.)

I was very cute in my teens and as a young adult. And I am still very cute as I march towards (okay, I’m in the midst of it) middle-age.

But I was never stereotypically hot. Cute is not generally considered hot. (Not that I go around using the word “hot” much — this is simply for illustration purposes.)

Except to those who found me quite hot indeed. There were some then and there are some now.

Did I lament my cute status when I was younger? Yes.

Did I wish I had thicker hair and longer legs. Yes.

Did I have a date to the Prom? Of course.

Were there vastly more “beautiful” girls in my circle. Of course, and how I wished I were taller and did not have such rounded features and pinch-able cheeks. (It’s been years since someone pinched my cheeks, but I think I’d be okay with it now.)

“She has a great personality” used to be code. It probably still is.

But that’s the most important thing to my mind. Personality trumps pretty much everything in my books — not that I don’t have my own thoughts on what’s hot. (Not that I plan to share in a public forum in any case. But feel free to ask me in person if you’re curious. I may share.)

A sour disposition may well be no hindrance to getting a once-over in the bar. But it’s not going to work very well in the long term. Plus a sense of humour is very attractive to most people. I know I like to laugh almost as much as I like candlelight dinners.

I was once told, many years ago, that my “type” — short, sturdy and of Eastern European “peasant” stock — was incredibly appealing. There was something else about going from milking the cows and collecting the eggs to…well, I won’t get into that. But it was an amusing — and oddly flattering — comment at the time and still makes me smile now when I go about my decidedly urban life.