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I am A Wicked Pixie, and I’m a thirty-something-year-old woman who maintains that life is a fragile bit of luck in a world based on chance, that Vodka should be a beverage a girl can marry, that we all secretly dress like hipsters, that nobody’s grown a decent tomato since 1963. What else? I live in New York City because it’s the only place I belong. I have spent the best years of my life growing out my bangs and searching for a good bra. I don’t understand being skinny, baseball, work clothes, or my iPhone. I used to think the world wasn’t that complicated—just add water and live—but along came world hunger and the cancellation of Firefly and I guess I just grew up. Still I'm deeply nostalgic for any moment the Spice Girls comes across my playlist during a shuffle and all I want to do is tell Mel B what she really really really wants.
Have I left anything out? I think every human being deserves a good mattress, a comfortable pair of shoes, and access to a good cupcake bakery. Like anyone else, I have fears. I’m scared the ozone layer is disappearing. I’m scared my parents are getting old. I’m scared my upper arms are getting flabby. I’m scared of liking a Miley Cyrus song. And I’m frightened to death of ambivalent people.
I prefer walking rather than running, I like to slightly burn my cookies and I own a Bedazzler. I want to know when carbs became the enemy, when medical insurance became the status of being an adult, and why I have rice paddy legs. I’ve slowly converted my wardrobe from art student to post-graduate art student. Meaning all my paint-spattered t-shirts are now being replaced with clean black t-shirts and patterns that hide paint spatter.
My parents and I go back over quarter of a century. It took a lot of time, but I’ve trained them well. They no longer tell me my necklines are too low or my hemlines hang too high. They don’t suggest I get my head out of the clouds or the hair out of my eyes. In exchange for which I refrain from complaining bitterly that they trained me to always clean my plate and that is why I habitually obsess about my portions. They don’t throw my inability to parallel park, and I’ve quit addressing letters home to “the people who forced me to wear a coat over my Halloween costume.” We’ve managed to forgive each other’s frailties, to accept that they're neurotic, and I’m, well, even more neurotic. It’s a fairly complex truce but it generally works for us. Others are less fortunate.
My, how time flies when I’m doing all the talking. We’re already up to the part where I have to end with some simple, albeit clever, albeit straight from the heart, phrase—something that says we’re all in this together, something that leaves everybody feeling a little less crazy in a world where “something a little less crazy” isn’t always easy to come by….if only I knew what that was.
want to thumb wrestle?.
