Project Strike Wear
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider on Jan 16th, 2008
In a lifetime, a gal grabs but a few moments in the limelight, unless of course she happens to be a supermodel, starlet or member of the WGA. Runways, red carpets and unforgiving concrete become familiar showcases for lucky gals who fall into these privileged categories.
Lately, the CBS Radford gate is my catwalk of choice. I’ve drawn more attention with my sidewalk strutting than I ever imagined possible, and I’ve managed to do it with a distinct deficit of style.
Clunky Reeboks stand in for sleek leather boots. Perfectly-creased, Banana Republic jeans hang unworn, supplanted by baggy sweatpants and eight-year-old Calvins that have seen better days. A baseball cap hides the formerly chic do’ I once sculpted meticulously with goop and spray. My hair now dangles from my head, limp and ungelled as I parade curbside with pride. A bulky red T-shirt sees more action than all my fitted tops combined.
In my current Strike Wear ensemble, I resemble the world’s tiniest linebacker.
There’s no place for vanity on the picket line. No make up, no translucent powder strong enough to block the rays of writerly rebellion.
Massages and pedicures? Call them pre-strike luxuries. Lower back pain, achy knees and blistered toes? A daily occurrence.
Why, just the other day, my feet threatened to mutiny from the rest of my body, claiming unfair treatment.
“We’re out of here,” they informed me. “We’ve had it. We’re done. Have fun picketing without us.”
“Hang on there, you! You can’t leave without me,” I insisted.
Apparently, my feet thought otherwise: “Watch us.”
I had no choice but to follow my feet to the car. We drove home in silence. Relations have been frosty ever since.
Of course, it’s one thing to strut your unflattering Strike Wear for the benefit of fellow picketers and a few passing cars that honk in support. It’s another to do it on the nightly news.
At a recent rally, cameras caught me hamming it up for all to see. My brief appearance has been repeated residual-free many… many times, much to the delight of my inner circle.
“Honey, I think I just saw you on TV,” my dad reported. “Was that you under the baseball cap?”
“Oh God,” I said.
That same night at a Christmas party, three more people asked: “Hey, was that you on the news? In a baseball cap?”
I thought about lying. It was the easier choice. Instead, I buried my face in my hands.
“Oh God,” I mumbled.
A few days later, my hairdresser hit me with a similar query: “Were you on TV, wearing a baseball cap?”
By now, the embarrassment had worn off enough for me to answer in several syllables.
“Was I chanting and dancing around and bobbing my head up and down like a total goofball?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes!” she said. “And you were banging on your umbrella like a tambourine.”
I’d forgotten that part.
“Oh God,” I moaned.
“Next time you’re on TV, lose the cap,” she advised. “I want to see your hair.”
Of course she does. She’s in charge of it. Once I leave salon premises, however, I make my own mistakes. Still, I gave her my word. No more caps. But trust me, there will be no next time. Let the supermodels and starlets enjoy the spotlight. I’m bowing out. Until my Guild designs the kind of Strike Wear Heidi Klum would consider “in,” this particular gal plans to strut her stuff off-camera.
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