Dr. Stud

I don't know. I really don't know.

Yesterday, I thought my life was fine. I thought it was all set. I thought I had followed through on a rare bout of discipline and self-determination and pushed through my writing challenges to get to the Promised Land. The land of creative liberty and respect from my peers. Serious Writer Land.

But no. I'm not. I'm still going to be writing puff pieces and makeup reviews and lifestyle BS. I'm not going to be a serious writer. Every fantasy that I've had of all the serious journalism — the eat-pray-love of my generation — has just evaporated in a puff of smoke.

So what I'm doing now is wallowing. I feel like I'm breaking up with a nice future boyfriend who never even really existed. I had a vision of myself so clear in my mind, and now it's gone. This is it.

Just how many more articles can I write about frickin’ mascara?? I want to scream.

My cell phone rings and I flip it over to squint at the face. Another 800 number. I swipe left to refuse the call.

See, that's the other thing. I've got bills to pay. And getting paid per click is just about doing it. I am almost able to pay my bills. Every month there’s a moment of panic — like, three days or so of wondering if the sky is really falling this time — then miraculously I have just enough. Maybe $100 extra if life is good.

It’s expensive to live in Chicago.

I need a book deal. Well, some might say first I need to write an actual book. But I should be able to take the work that I've already done and the prestige that Hannah was supposed to gift upon me like a queen offering me a duchy or something, and repackage all that jazz into a book deal. Like, get an agent and have her negotiate with Powers That Be. With an advance. Oh man, yes. That’s the life.

There are still some parts of the publishing industry that work, even in our brand-new economy and our brand-new media landscape. Authors still get advances, which they blow in spectacular fashion until they realize the deadline has reached critical levels and actual words need to get down on actual fucking pieces of paper, like immediately.

That’s the way the system has always worked, and it's a good system. I believe in it.

That collection call is followed promptly by another 888 number. What, do these guys call each other to know when to start the phone tree? Tag teams?

I swipe left on that one too and, with a groan, haul my lazy ass off the sofa. I need to get dressed. The car’s coming to get me at seven-thirty. It’s almost five-thirty now.

I've got two hours. Is that enough time? To shower, shave, and blowout my hair? Not really. This deadline, like so many others before it, is just coming up way too fast. If I was any kind of respectable woman, I would have washed my hair yesterday and put it in curlers overnight. Yeah, because that's what real women do. They plan ahead.

Well, tough. “Tough titty said the kitty when the milk ran dry,” that's another thing grandma said. She was really gifted with words. I guess she’s who I got my potty-mouth from.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room, chewing on my bottom lip with my head cocked to the side like a spaniel. Two hours? Dammit. My mind races back over the last thirty-odd hours… what exactly have I been doing? Moping? Feeling sorry for myself? Waving bye-bye to my imaginary future?

Dang. Sometimes I really gross myself out.

So, this hair… what are we gonna do about this? I start mumbling crazily to myself as I push my fingers into the big brown rat’s nest on top of my head. Should I go bo-ho? Maybe some kind of weirdly complicated and messy up-do? Do I have time to watch about thirty Youtube tutorials on messy up-dos?

“Focus, Bella,” I command my mirror image. My eyes are serious, my eyebrows arched.

No, I will not go watch a bunch of beauty videos. That's a good way to make sure I’m still my underwear when the car gets here.

Instead, I push my fingers a little further into my hair to see just how jacked up it really is. After some strategic tousling and a jaunty swoosh to the opposite side, I realize I could do a teased bombshell thing without too much effort. I mean, starting with dirty hair is pretty much on trend, right? I'm very fashion forward.

I put on a plastic shower cap, tucking the wandering strands under the elastic while I wait for the shower to heat up. I can at least wash my body, maybe slide a razor over the stubblier parts of my legs. I just had a wax so everything is pretty much okay right now, if you’re far enough away.

It's not like I'm going to fuck him, anyway. He probably won't be inspecting my bikini line for grooming faults, right?

“You are not that kind of girl,” I say aloud, reminding myself.

With only an hour and fifteen left to go, I plop my freshly showered bottom on my vanity chair and begin prepping my face for sultry glam vixen. That sounds like a decent look to go with the hair, right? I smear on few hundred dollars in free moisturizer and primer that I got from NYX and set to work, falling quickly into a sort of trance. I like to focus on the sweep of my brow line, the subtle rosy hue on my cheeks. Painting in the eyeliner wings gives me a kind of thrill, watching my face go from plain oval blandness to high contrast babe.

Not that I'm an actual babe, to be honest. I'm sort of run-of-the-mill. Plain brown hair, brown eyes, moderately clear skin. Standard issue lady face. But, as I have mentioned in at least two of my recent lifestyle articles, make up is a way of telling the world “Hey, lay off. I tried.”

People respond to that kind of confidence. They do. It’s like painting, almost. Or what I imagine artists do when they paint. It's kind of like showing everyone that you took control, at least a little bit.

A curling iron takes care of the swishy ends of my hair, turning it from rat’s nest to nineteen-sixties-inspired tousled hairdo. I like how in the ’sixties, everybody looked like they had sex hair. Like they just got out of bed after being properly jostled against the pillow for twenty minutes or so. Of course, it was the era of free love. Maybe they were all freshly fucked. Their lips are plump and pale. Their eyes are haunted. The ’sixties really were pretty terrific, from a fashion perspective.

This all helps me figure out my outfit too. I think I’ll wear a silk swing dress, the one with that crazy blue and green swirl pattern that I like so much. It looks kind of like the oil slick on the surface of a swimming pool that follows the teenage girl slathered in Bain de Soleil.

I slip it over my head and look in the mirror, swinging back and forth to let the loose fabric swish around me. I guess I’m presentable enough. First date appropriate, that's for darn sure.