Mademoiselle

Blood Of A Virgin lip tint*

When I was a young girl, I lived and died by the fashion magazine. I eagerly sought out big, fat issues of Vogue and Cosmo and Mademoiselle. The dream-world of fashion editorials, for all their artifice, seemed like so much potential. That's the allure, of course. That this could be you, for the right products and the right price.

The articles I also absorbed with great fervor. A handbook, nay, a shortcut to sophistication. So what if you're 12 years old from the boonies, you could learn to manage your jet-set lifestyle while flitting from your cold water flat in the Village to your pied-a-terre in Monmartre. You hardly needed money, even. A pretty face was your best accessory. Just stick a pair of chopsticks through your messy updo and a swipe of color across your lips and voila, you were ready to go.

It's compelling stuff. Ridiculous, but compelling, especially when you're very young. Funny how things look from the vantage point of age.

There was one article in particular I remember, and that's what's on my mind tonight. It must have been in Mademoiselle, as they would occasionally print such a wistful, philosophical piece. The writer was a young woman who had run into her old lover unexpectedly, and had Feelings about it.

The lover was a sexy (it's implied) Englishman who was Far Too Old for her, so of course it could never work, but they happen to bump into each other at an understated yet glamorous cafe and so they have coffee and madeleines and talk about things. When their meeting ends, the couple again part, sadly and longingly but knowing it's for the best.

I'm dredging this up from 30 years ago, so details are fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure this is where I got the idea that eating madeleines was symbolic of doomed romance. Also, the article gave me ideas. It filled me with the sort of anguish one only feels as an adolescent, wondering if such a grown up thing would ever happen to them. Not only having such a lover, but having a past with that lover. A yearning, gnawing, hopeless affair. What was it like? There were so many experiences I'd never had.

What I never imagined was that I'd grow up into the kind of person who doesn't enjoy this sort of thing at all. That I'd have the kinds of relationships that were so difficult to extricate myself from that no trace of wistfulness could remain. Or that when a man would break up with me, I'd soon regard our relationship as akin to a bout of food poisoning. When he would return, he'd be surprised to find I felt about him no differently than a bad muffuletta from the deli; why on earth would I want another bite?

So it's with great regret I must inform my younger self that she won't be having sad madeleines with old Englishmen while looking winsome in her shades and cashmere coat. Or her pouf skirt and ballet flats, for that matter, marvelous lipcolor not withstanding. She won't even be drinking wine out a bag with Kevin or Bryan or Ben. The past is a county that's fun to roam, but ex-lovers lay behind a locked gate without a key.

Not even a hand of glory or the blood of a virgin can open it.


*I admit I stole the idea for the art, but at least I did use my own lips.