Shanghai Vixen

I've been thinking about what it means to be a "babe".

(Why is it that most words for attractive, desirable women are vaguely demeaning? I think it's not just sexism, there's also the objectification factor. Which is okay, we all objectify all other people to an extent, and subjects of sexual attraction to a greater extent.)

More importantly, I've been thinking about what it would take for this Vixen to be a "babe".

Is it even possible for smart, successful women to be "babes"? I will vote yes, if only because being a heterosexual woman, I must cling to the belief, perhaps deluded, that not all heterosexual men are total morons.

First, there is the physical.

A. Weight. The easy one, and the hard one. I am prettier when I am less plump. Nicer body, works better in clothes. Most important, I feel more attractive, so I act more attractive.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think skinniness is the key to attractiveness, despite popular belief in China. One sees a lot of the buttless wonders whose gaunt faces and matchstick bodies would benefit immensely from an extra twenty pounds (not to mention some muscle-tone), and others who will never be pretty no matter what their shape and size. Catty expat men (the two-to-tener type) will snark that I'm jealous, but really, ew! The bodies I envy are the mid-weight, healthy, athletic kinds. I definitely do not aspire to buttless wonderdom!

I lose weight easily enough when I make it a priority, therein lies the problem. Food is nice. Champagne and martinis (although not in the same night, I have learned better than that) are also nice. I am not only bad at but morally opposed to deprivation. The trick, like so much in life, is finding a balance, and motivation to stay balanced.

B. The details. The wardrobe I have perfected to an art, and/or an unhealthy obsession, ditto with jewelry. Could hone the shoes and purse side, am not so much into those components. It's the other physical details that get me, though.

My nails are usually gross. I keep them short, between active lifestyle and Shanghai pollution causing the collection of gunk under long nails. I used to bite my nails and fingers violently, have gotten better but still need Constant Vigilance. I've discovered the joy of "nail spas" (*wince*), and would like to be one of those monthly ped weekly man gals. But, when I get busy, which happens a lot lately, it's the first thing to go.

My hair has issues. Currently it tends to be oddly flat on the top, and oddly poufy in the back. My last haircut was a disaster, turned out totally uneven so I had to do a daily "Oh shit!" snip for a while until it was a little less horrid. I like very simple, low-maintenance cuts, which is hard to get in fussy-land. I used to have a great 5 yuan barber in the Old City, 1920s chairs and all, who could do my simple do, but they "renovated" and were ruined. I don't know what to do, apart from more trial and error: the more expensive the place, the more they try to fussify my hair, ugh, and the only okay cheap place I've found of late, the boss has hit on me the last few times. Regardless, babedom requires better hair.

Other stupid things add up. Make-up, skin, body hair…all that shit. Things that are stupid to worry about, but if you don't, they bite you in the ass. God, men have it easy. I do resent the pressures upon my sex. Dammit.

Secondly, babedom requires a certain attitude. A lot of it, and the things that differentiate a

femme fatale from a bimbo, I have down: pithy quips, a sense of self-mockery, general coolness. But the babe basics, be she bimbo or fatale, I need to work on. They're really all sides of the same coin, too.

A. Openness, approachability, public vulnerability. No one likes an Ice Princess. And even if they do, no one knows how to talk to her. A good babe is easy to talk to, whether you know her or not. You dare accost her at a bar, a party, the subway, whatever, because you sense that even if she shoots you down, she'll be kind about it; she probably won't date you, but it's worth the shot, since she'll still be your friend.

I: could be more nice. Pleasant, polite. Walls are better at keeping people out than holding them in.

B. Flirtiness. I suck at flirting. The basics still freak me out. In theory I know, that if you see a cutie, check him out, he catches you and makes eye contact, you should hold for a second and smile slightly, maybe even wink, before looking away. In practice it's always a mixture of "Eeek!" plus "can't be bothered", more of the former, so I react to accidental eye contact with a stony "that was accidental" expression as I stick my chin out and huff away. Yeah, I'm kinda a bitch, but it's really just because I'm shy. Leading us to:

C. The right kind of confidence: comfort in one's own skin, no matter how fat, acne-ridden, nail-gnawed it is, so as to engage, encourage, deal with people, making them more comfortable.  Which I do for work well enough, but in life? Ah…no. Not so good there.

The wrong kind of confidence is the sort we overachievers so excel in, judgmental know-it-allism. I will never be able to help that I am not easily impressed, that I have an exceedingly good bullshit-o-meter. Which I have ignored only at great expense. That said, I shouldn't subject people to the bullshit-o-meter too quickly. Underneath it, I am sincere, loving, caring and rather embarrassingly earnest, plus fun and funny, but I am reluctant to let people see my soft underbelly, let alone stroke and enjoy it like Mr. Fabulous' immortal fluffy duzi.

In summary, and from past experience, the attitude is what counts. A fat flirty Vixen is waaay more babilicious than a skinny, aloof one.

The point is, like in a certain novel, "Lighten up". And in the philosophical sense vastly more than the physical. There is nothing more pathetic, pointless or farcical than taking yourself (myself) too seriously. 

It's been a long, draining week with lots of the sort of emotional drama that is hard to write about, so I've been putting it off. And will continue to do so until I file a few more overdue articles.

Instead, I'll focus on the totally fluffy: my new lust object.  

I go to the gym almost every day, and have been doing so for several years now. (You'd think I'd have an awesome body from this, but no. Blame champagne.) Natural, I know by site all the staff and regulars, but I'm rarely social there, rather am clamped into my MP3 player and grooving to my own thang. I'm aloof for two reasons. First, I have to be "on" and social almost all the other times I'm out of the house here, and it's nice to have a place where I can focus and be incognito and be in my own head that's not work. Second, a lot of the people there are morons, wanting to practice their bad English on a foreigner, or, worse, annoying foreigners who travel in packs and talk so loud you can hear them out in Songjiang.

While I keep to myself acoustically, I do still people watch, and notice when people are watching me. Usually I have to pretend not to be, though, since there are several guys who will make idiots of themselves trying to catch my eye. The personal trainers at the gym are mostly pretty scary, hulkishly bulky and with stupid hair. A few of them, though are really hot, really beautiful specimens with great bodies and nice faces. Among these is one who looks a lot like the Hong Kong star Andy Lau. I am in love with Andy Lau, great actor plus handsome in such a strong way, which is rare for Asian guys who are usually more pretty when they are good-looking. It must have been at least six months ago when I first noticed Poor Man's Andy Lau (PMAL) watching me, and when I made eye contact with him, he looked like he was going fall over. Ha.

It was only a month ago that I started watching PMAL back. Eye candy is always good. Naturally, he has noticed this, and the ogling has intensified. He's now staring quite overtly, as if trying to force a response from me, while I remain surreptitious, letting my glances be caught only enough to amuse me by his response. It's rather a fun game, albeit silly.

I should have nothing against meeting guys at the gym. Hey, it's the only place I'm regularly surrounded by me who are attractive AND straight. Too much fashion schmoozing of late has me convinced that everyone's gay. (Why couldn't this career move coincide with one of my bi-curious phases? Why?!) Now, gym rats definitely get their hoyay on quite a lot – today there was one guy straddling another's face to spot him on the bench press! I was cracking up. These same guys were trying to get my attention a few minutes later, and it was like, no, I've had enough of the gay this month. And any guy who is into his body enough to work out hard core probably has some serious narcissism and obsession with the male body issues, to be sure. There was one night when the Shanghai Mode Lingerie Show (which I was at, and it was creepy, and creepier still I have a bunch of photos from it for work on my computer, buttless wonder plank porn, ew) was on one of the TVs at the gym. PMAL and two of the other trainers were clustered under the monitor, gazing at the plank porn raptly. Well, at least I know he's straight!

My objection to meeting guys at the gym is that I've already been there, done that. Gym Boy, as I called him, was my rebound after the first break-up with Jifu, two and a half years ago now. He was cultured, considerate, handsome, amazing in bed, and hopelessly smitten with me. He also had the conversational skills of a house plant. He was incredibly educational, the first time I'd orgasmed with a partner, and, for the record, the female ejaculation does exist, although oddly was only into the oral and manual, not that I minded. What I minded, though, was that the conversational tedium outweighed the screaming hot sex, and in the end it just wasn't worth it. He was also really a perfectionist, germ and dirt obsessed, while I'm a total laid-back slob. His very Shanghainese predilection for cleaning my house while in his underwear was an upshot.  Then, I also got back with Jifu, who sucks in bed but can outblather even me.  Incidentally, Gym Boy still pops back up (no, not in that way!) every few months wanting to get back together. Bizarre.

So I presume that guys I meet at the gym will be Bo!Ring! and so I don't even try. The other main strike against PMAL is that the job of trainer is pretty menial, and there are questions of how low I'd slum for a nice chunk of hunk. Male model was dubious enough. Also, he's always chatting up the annoying laowais at the gym in ba-a-ad English, and he speaks English in this oddly high-pitched voice, although he sounds normal in guoyu, albeit rather nasaly. I wonder whether his crush on me isn't just curiosity about an exotic Caucasian, since I have definitely had plenty of those. (I half think Gym Boy v. 1.0 was one, given his desire to get me back despite our total personality incompatibility.) Oh, and he's also pretty short, even by my standards, and doesn't look all that great close up.

Still, it would be good for me to simply flirt, since I am rather rusty on even that. Except, of

late, PMAL has been a fantasy, someone for me to ogle and jerk off over. I suspect allowing him a soundtrack would ruin that.

Whether I want them to or not, things are progressing. Yesterday, when I was surprised by an eye contact, I smiled and nodded at PMAL before walking on, and after got several intensely pointed looks from him. Today, twice I deliberately held his gaze and smiled. After the second one, he sort of circled around me as if wanting to approach, but I did not give him another opening. After yesterday, I was thinking I should just cut the crap and accost him and introduce myself. Now, though, I'm thinking I should let the man do the work, since, when I really don't care much either way, it's funny to make and watch them get nervous.

(Wow, I may have a bit of manipulative Shanghai xiaojie in me after all!)

Remember that poufy purple fairy wand pen from Fashion Week? It has become the property of The Silver Lining. Does it decrease my extra girly points for owning it with kitten-mouth-sized chucks out of its sparkly foam star?

(What do sparkly foam stars do to kitten digestion anyway?)

Elle anniversary party on 11/11 was fun if random, and the swag was a great red leather jewelry box. Excellent. But it had nothing on the Vera Wang boutique launch: a pair of silver-stemmed champagne flutes. Extra funny because I had been joking lately that the fashion beat is not my iron rice bowl so much as my iron champagne flute. Hey, silver works too!

Vera's fabulous, by the way. Very nice and down-to-earth. And, although I hate wedding dresses, her designs are gorgeous.

Of course, I only drink champagne when it's free, but the glasses are agreeing with my martinis well enough!

Is it sad that I get to the weekend and am like, please can I not party anymore?

 Last night was the Chloe launch, which tried really hard to be this big bash, but the competition is tough, and compared to some we've had lately, it was just meh. It was at the Children's Palace, Hardoon's old mansion, which is a great venue, but was used in September for a Jessica (a Hong Kong women's label) party, so not that sparkly exciting. I was just emailing a friend wishing we could have all these swank spreads at fabulous locations but with interesting people rather than the sort of pretentious posers that come to fashion events. There are a few interesting people to be found, but not many, and they have to dumb down their conversation to fit in with the models. (Her claws clacked upon the keyboard…)

 Seriously, fashion VIPs? Are the most random people. A few industry insiders, but then the most bizarre folks get on these invite lists. And you can't spit at these things without hitting a PR flak. I have nothing against PR flaks, I am friends with many a PR flak, and they make my life easier. But for some reason in Shanghai – and maybe this is universal – there is like this PR backscratching mafia, so the PR company organizing the event invites all their friends/colleagues/competition, and then treats them better than the press. All these random wankers get the front rows, the best swag, access to the "VIP room", while journalists get stuck in the press ghetto.

From now on, I'm just going to call them that. VIPs? No. Random wankers. Over in the Random Wankers Section. Having introduced terms like "Shuppie" and "Chlogic" to the Shanghai lexicon, I will consider this my latest contribution, the newest Vixenism.

Among the random wankers at the Chloe party was J, that not-that-pretty male model from Beijing. We conversed. I asked what had happened last week at Shanghai Tang, and he just sort of shrugged. "It was so dark there, and afterwards, I thought maybe it wasn't even you, which would explain why you wouldn't talk to me." "No, it was me," he admitted. "So any reason why you were being so rude?" He just shrugged again. And here I had thought he was a decent conversationalist. Not the first time the Vixen has misjudged a man, and it won't be the last. "Well, whatever." I was actually very nice about it, under the circumstances, because burning bridges just isn't that much fun, and being magnanimous freaks guys out most. Being bitchy just justifies their worst expectations, and makes one look bad. Besides, I owe him one, although he doesn't know it, for breaking my year-long dry spell and getting me back in the game. I didn't even pull out the line, quite true, and which was what I thought when he asked me out in the first place, that if I do stoop to dating a male model, I at least want one of the hot ones.

Another disgusting round in the "Welcome to the 1950s" trend that sexism is alive and well. Don't know where this article is from, but was reposted in China Daily.

"Ask a woman if she is ambitious and you either get a short, horrified "No," or a long speech in which the word is defined, redefined, qualified and explained. After a generation of women working outside the home, they are still squirming with embarrassment around an old problem ambition."

"A key ingredient to fulfil ambition is self-promotion; Thomson reckons decisions to promote someone are 10 per cent based on the person's skills, 30 per cent on being known to be capable, and a whopping 60 per cent about being simply known you are heard at meetings, you speak up, you network. You have to throw yourself around. But this is where women often fail; "too many women are modest and self-deprecating it's the 'only little me' syndrome," concludes Thomson."

Just, ew. Weak, worthless wimps like that deserve a good hard punch in the nose for undermining us Real Women.

Although, what articles like this miss is how both men and women are opting out of the traditional career ladder structure, because that economy is crumbling. So many people work themselves on up, only to be "made redundant". And even if you keep your job and succeed at it, corporate cogdom is just about as degrading as the legalized prostitution of housewifery.

A lot of people, women and the second sex, are redefining concepts of success and ambition. It does not mean being a CEO or having more disposable income than you have time to dispose of.  It means having a happy, healthy, well-rounded life, in which a challenging and rewarding career plays a defining role but not the defining role.

In other news, hilarious about the Chengdu media's news strike on Chen Kaige's newest film, "The Promise". The film debuted early in Chengdu only to qualify for the Non-English Oscar, but demanded press pay for their own tickets to the screening, allowed no interviews, and - the clincher - wanted them to commit to saying nice things about the film.

Sadly, promotions often get away with thus screwing the press here, and such travesties are not uncommon. What is uncommon is that the press rebelled, and has refused to cover the film at all until they get better treatment. Hear, hear!