Jen balanced atop a small ladder, standing directly on a label that read, “NOT A STEP.” Knowing Jen, she’d taken the warning as a challenge. I stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment without announcing my presence. In one hand Jen held a styrofoam cup filled with black paint and in the other a well-used artist’s paintbrush. She leaned in close to the wall, painting the bangs on a mural of Bettie Page, the famous pin-up girl. Once completed, the mural would cover the entire back wall of our little vintage clothing shop. My gaze shifted from Bettie back to Jen, and I marveled at how Jen somehow managed to look every bit as sexy as Bettie, even without the benefit of a leopard-skin bikini and a whip. In fact, Jen’s outfit was nothing special--just old jeans and a paint-smeared tank top. If I were to wear the same thing I would look like Bertha the lesbian plumber, but Jen looked radiant.
I know what you’re thinking. You're thinking this is about to segue into a long, pointless, self-absorbed naval-gazing extravaganza wherein I reference all kinds of pop culture trash (like Bettie, whom I adore, BTW) and you smile and nod knowingly at the ones you recognize and ignore the ones you don't. You're thinking I'm going to pontificate about clothes and shoes and men and sex and why can't we all have perfect skin and flawless bodies and interesting lives. You're thinking this entire scenario—the daring and gorgeous Jen painting an equally gorgeous image on a wall in a store designed to make women feel gorgeous—is just the setup for a story with some asinine moral lesson, like true beauty comes from within. But most of all, you're wondering what I'm doing in this vintage clothing shop with its Bettie Page mural when I'm a guy and usually shop at Wal-Mart.
Opening: Lightsmith.....Continuation: Khazar-khum/blogless_troll