THE INSANITY OF VANITY
Seriously? Let’s talk about a random West Hollywood moment. I was minding my own at the gym, when out of the nowhere a woman wearing a ballerina getup throws a shiny bag on the floor and then positions herself in the middle of the main workout floor to do her rendition of The Nutcracker in front of a mirror—OK, maybe The Nutcracker is off season, I don’t know what the fuck she was doing. The point is this woman gave us some unsolicited ballet moves and straight up did not give a fuck that she was distracting boyz from their beauty pumps, stealing the spotlight from the gay parade that sashays across the gym floor to the water fountain every two minute and she was completely oblivious to the fact that her dire need for attention made people uncomfortable—“Oh my gawd make her stop!” My friend hissed under his breath while I looked on at the shameless display with morbid fascination. I HAD to take pictures.
For the most part people ignored her, which is typical of my fellow jaded Angelinos. But then you had your random halfwit taping her on the shoulder to compliment her moves. Ballerina Lady glowed and leaned her head sideways and graciously mouthed the words thank you.
Then in walks in this old member of the gym who likes to embody a character from The Sopranos, with his thick gold chain resting on a bed of white fur sprouting from his stretched tank top; he sports a short, thin graying pompadour and he has this obnoxiously brash demeanor that let’s everyone know he is here, he is a hetero male, hear him roar.
“What are you doing here ballerina?” He asked her bluntly in a fake Italian accent. “Ooh, you know…” She responded coyly, “I’m just ballerina-ing.”
What followed was just too much. Wannabe Italian p.i.g. PIG started chatting her up in a flirtatious manner—keep in mind that it was the time of day when there were two empty aerobic rooms, a small empty indoor basketball court and a stretching area where she could have put one foot on the ceiling and the other foot across the exit door with no incident or interruption—the main gym floor was NOT the place and yet she turned it into her own tiny stage.
It was just…too much.
It was random. It could have been an artistic moment seeing some graceful ballet in the midst of a sweaty mess, pounding weights and the grunts from bloated queens, but everyone around her was sooo over her and completely over it–ALL OF IT!!!—“Hey Ballerina Lady. We don’t like your kind walking around here with your pointy toes and your Swan Lake poise making us fell less than limber. We don’t like it one bit, ya hear? You need to go.”
Insanity. You gottah love it. Cuz when it boils down to it, that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it? We all just want to be loved.
Luv,
Me
