Define "High Maintenance", please

                Everyone who knows me knows that although I appear high maintenance, I am, indeed, not high maintenance.  Other than my sense of style, sarcastic wit and penchant for saying “okaaaay, gurl!” or “Look here, sister friend” more often than is typically warranted, I am not stereotypically gay, the people who invented High Maintenance, regardless what those Reality TV wives would like to believe.  And by sterotypically, I mean, I don’t have a beauty regimen, y’all.  I take a shower with shower gel and get my haircuts at Great Clips.  I know, I know, it’s a chain and like a royal on the outs with their family, I abhor, and try to avoid, chains.  But I have my reasons, mostly because I was tired of spending $60-75 for a mediocre haircut at a salon, when I can go to Great Clips, get the same mediocre haircut for $16 and then spend the remaining money on colored chinos, Starbucks iced tea or cinnamon rolls. 

                The universe and my circle of friends have conspired to turn me high maintenance, as to remove the cognitive dissonance they experience when I end up being all down-to-earth and stuff.  Until I moved to Southern California, I had never imagined a scenario where I would have a manicure or pedicure.  I could cut my own fingernails and the less anyone sees or touches my janky old-man feet, the better off we will all be.  

                My friend, let’s call her Curly Sue, is an avid fan of the mani-pedi experience.  When I good-naturedly mocked her beauty routine, she reminded me that I promised to always try something first before I pass judgment.  I agreed and went with her to Bliss Spa on Broadway (in Long Beach).  As the young lady (named Ivy) was soaking my feet, she asked if I wanted to add ‘callus removal’ to my treatment that day.  I replied, “That’s a thing?  Well, Ivy, you best get to gettin’ on these big ol’ yeti feet of mine, girl!” And she did, and I was hooked, do you hear me?  Now Curly Sue and I do mani/pedis followed by Thai food once a month and don’t you even think about asking me to reschedule or postpone.  I will turn seven shades of irritated, y’all, like a Dance Mom whose untalented daughter got cut from the drag queen’s dance troupe.  I binged a lot of reality TV the day after Thanksgiving, y'all.  

                I have also never included moisturizing in my bedtime rituals.  Previously I would simply brush my teeth, read my Bible (yes, I'm a better Christian than you), take my medicine and go to sleep.  Due to observing Ben’s regimen (lotions, moisturizers, occasionally calisthenics) I have changed my routine, but only adding lotion to my legs and arms, so my skin will retain its youthful glow, its color a familiar milky white with touches of pink and purple, not unlike one of those mother-of-pearl vases you bought your MeeMaw at the Dollar General.  I also use linen spray on my sheets and pillow because, well, I’m not an animal.

                Even though I know deep in their heart of hearts, my friends and acquaintances, understand that I am very low-key and easy-to-please, at Thanksgiving we played a game (the unimaginatively named The Voting Game) wherein everyone votes anonymously for whichever player best fits the descriptor on the card.  I was voted several things that were very flattering (Most Likely to have been voted Prom King (which I wasn’t, but my brother was) and Most Likely to be Read About in Your Grandchildren’s History Book (which would be cool and possible if all my Facebook friends would buy a copy of my second book, he said with exaggerated side-eye).  However, I was also voted Most Likely to have a Complicated Order at Starbucks.  With this title, I take umbrage.

                While I spend an inordinate amount of money at Starbucks, I think my order is fairly mundane.  It’s simply a Venti Black Iced Tea with 3 Splenda and No Water (the No Cane Sugar is unspoken and understood by the baristas, y’all).  How is that complicated?  I know Ben orders a Cappuccino with no other specifics other than size (always Grande), but if we’re comparing the world to him, everyone is high maintenance.  Other than his overly complex moisturizing/lotioning routine and his insistence on exercising every day, he is one of the least complicated people I’ve ever met.  You should have to compare me to someone like Leslie Jordan or Crispin Glover or Wallis Warfield Simpson, Duchess of Windsor.  Measured against those people, I’m like Saint Whoever (Catholics, help me out here), but with cuter outfits.

                Alas, I know that you have to compare me to “regular people”, like those voluntarily taking public transportation or shopping at The Wal-Mart, and so I will appear to be High Maintenance, my 27 pairs of colored chinos and 21 sweaters (even though I live in Southern California) notwithstanding.   So, I will accept the title thrust upon me; being named, well, The Most, I suppose.  Now that we’ve uncovered by heretofore hidden Most-ness, I'm not inclined to even finish...