On Consignment by Hireheeler ‘Back Bay Style’
Years ago, when I told a friend I was heading out for leg wax, she blurted, “I thought that was something only rich women do!” True enough, thought I…
I’d first heard of waxing from a tony gal, that I met during my ten years living amongst the “HENRY’s,”— High Earning, Not Yet Rich. When I returned to the world of forty-something single women, I could not give up my indulgence— it does hurt (on the bod and in the pocketbook) to be beautiful. I had no problem leaving the big house, the vacations and the pricey dinners out behind, but my penchant for smooth, sexy gams and properly 
positioned show seats could never be denied…
I expected things to be a bit tough, beginning on the bottom rung of the professional ladder at age 41. But, as long as I could meet a friend for a light bite, afford to see a few shows a year and do so with silky, smooth legs— I never really missed being part of the affluent class. Well even preferred pampering needs to be dialed back in a crisis… Eventually, I was forced to get out the shaving cream. Natch, I still “get thee to the spa” for a proper wax, when a decent paycheck comes in.
Somewhere, during the past several years, monthly living expenses skyrocketed. Socializing became a burden. I was working as a professional, but didn’t feel like I belonged. Dining out digressed from the “chic” restaurants, to chains, to cheap eats, to ultimately staying home. The heating bill looked as if it should be warming up the Hancock Tower (which, btw recently went on the block for half of its worth) instead of my flat. Theater tickets in Boston climbed to the height of the newly renovated Opera House ceiling. After a $200.00 night, when I found myself gazing more at the ceiling than the stage, I went on ticket strike.
Though I realize not being able to indulge in my spa day or in the Dress Circle doesn’t constitute real hardship, the stress of trying to earn enough to meet the rising cost of necessities had me popping lots of those little purple pills (Prilosec). And imperceptibly, as the struggle seeped into my self-image of an urban, professional woman, I began to withdraw. I felt the “fraud syndrome,” a feeling that I didn’t really belong at events where the “it crowd,” the “successful people,” the “smart set” gathered. The need to attend a professional dinner at a swank downtown hotel brought on a full-blown panic attack… I spent three hours fussing with hair and make-up and endured more wardrobe changes than a first date would garner. Finally, a black wrap dress and classic Stuart W’s got me out the door.
A few weeks ago one of the most successful women I know divulged, “I’ve have no money. The business hasn’t been paid much in months.” “Why didn’t you call?” I knowingly asked… Admitting financial struggle is the professional kiss of death. I guess we can all come out of the closet and admit that times are really tough…
Finally, I relented. I packed my pride and my well-worn Pradas in the back seat and moved to a respectable, but very un-chic digs in the burbs. Those old status symbols don’t seem to matter so much now. I may have given up my beloved hardwood floors— but you can bet… I’ll be struttin’ on that sensibly safe wall-to-wall in my one cherished pair of Manolos!
