Shoulda, Coulda...

Whoever coined the phrase “hindsight is 20/20” was really on to something. I’m sure they realized it too, as they held court from their easy chair, their podium, or their street corner. They probably took a breath, impressed with themselves, glanced out over their loyal subjects, and struck an insightful countenance before continuing again. Listening intently, their audience was awestruck by their admirable perception of the obvious. Their pontificating continued, juxtaposing life’s vicissitudes and sounding downright Socratic, all the while never allowing themselves or the breadth of their knowledge to be hampered by a trifle such as an awareness of their own ignorance.

Stay with me now. We all know this cat. Sometimes they rear their head at the barbeque, plate of ribs in their lap, cold brew in their hand, having just chased down the Courvoisier. They’re at First Fridays, talking louder than you, one-upping whatever you were talking about. They’re at the water cooler, enlightening all of the rest of us minionS about what’s really going on.

Just to show you that I’m not bloggin’ ‘cause I’m thinkin’ it’s a trend, “lemme break it down for you again.” Whoever coined the phrase “hindsight is 20/20” is probably the same guy pictured next to Webster’s definition of a Monday Morning Quarterback. They’ve got all the answers. Of course they do, because they know all the outcomes.

Well, color me Easy-Chair Elway. I suffered from a random attack of, well...randomness today. (Big surprise there.) I suddenly had it all figured out. Excuse me while I put on my Life Coach’s obligatory hat and whistle. Career choices are paramount in my mind these days as my current employer, whom we’ll call Titanic Networks, speeds toward its demise and I remain on deck, playing in the band, keeping the music going so as to not alarm the passengers or in our case the clients. It’s too late to help me, so I’ll play Pat Riley and lead you all to the Promised Land. It’s not too late for you. Moving to the top spot on my list of “if I had it to do agains” I would’ve sold Mary Kay. Yeah, that’s right, Mary Kay. Yeah, put this one right up there ahead of Major League Pitcher, GQ Model, or concert pianist.

I could’ve made a killing selling Mary Kay. Seriously. I’d be like those barbershops that they put in the business districts of major metro areas with the voluptuous 20-somethings donning smocks, shears, and a smile, causing even the would-be Rogaine users to frequent. Speaking completely from an unquestioned position of objectivity, I’m not a bad looking cat. I can play tall, dark and handsome. Well, I’m definitely tall.

It’s not about the cosmetics. No, don’t get this confused with last week’s post where I said that it indeed WAS all cosmetic, clearly referring to the state of being, or even the adjective (English majors, please excuse me if I go astray) form and not the noun that I’m using here. I’ll say it again. It’s not about the cosmetics. Any sales person knows that the product doesn’t sell the product. People sell the product. Never having used any actual cosmetics, I’ll assume that much like the gasoline I’m sold at the pump, with its differing brand names, plethora of octane ratings and varying prices, it’s all the same gas. Furthermore, the consumer buys from who they like. I think they could like me. They definitely don’t want to see somebody that’s wearing the product and looking prettier than them. That would only make them mad. They’d put the lipstick on, their pretty sales lady would tell them, “Oooh! Girl! That looks great!” and they’d subsequently head to the mirror and discover that it doesn’t look as good as their sales lady until they get their upper lip waxed or get collagen injections. But if I were the sales person and was able to give them the same compliment, while blushing, and smiling with my eyes they’d have their instant proof that these very cosmetics indeed have the desired effect on the male species.



Of course it wouldn’t all be smooth sailing. There’d be the issue of the pink car. I’d be so successful that they’d give me a Pink Cadillac to drive around to make my deliveries. No problem. Monday Morning Joe Montana that I am, I figured that I’d put some rims on it and keep some Keith Washington in the changer as I rode up and down the street. I’d supplant the mail man as the highlight of their day.

My ultimate undoing might be the ever increasing price of petrol, however. Sure, I’d have lots of customers, and they’d be buying lots of make-up. But in an effort to have that Pink Cadillac with the plush bucket seats come around their way more often, they might start doing something ridiculous like ordering one tube of lipstick at a time. I’d get there and find that they were writing notes with the stuff, letting their kids use it for their coloring books, or whatever they could think of to use it up as quickly as possible. Mr. Bush’s war would finally drive me into debt more serious than single tubes of lipstick could get me out of. Mary Kay would take the Pink Cadillac away.

It would all come crumbling down as I’d finally come to the realization that the Pee Wee Herman bicycle with the paper boy’s basket does not go over nearly as well as the Pink Coupe de Ville on dubs. My clientele’s patience for my inability to get to them in a timely fashion would wane almost as quickly as your interest in the randomness of my ramblings.