The Lula Mae Syndrome

This is for those of us who have seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s 3875 times, who grew up watching Dynasty and Beverly Hills 90210, are fixated on Gossip Girl, who know every line in Clueless and have no shame in watching every season (over and over again) of all things Kardashians. But there’s more to this list than what some may call vapid entertainment. Indeed, there is a passion for all things pretty and glamorous. Living vicariously through the lives of filthy rich people with a mean shoe game is a form of escape from the humdrum of everyday life. Of course, it is pure fiction; we know that. Right?

Let’s be honest: at the end of a long day at work, as you embark on an overcrowded bus to head home to the hood, the last thing you wanna see is a collection of scattered shopping carts besides your apartment building, am I right? But when you do, the idea of plopping down on your couch to watch episodes of Kimora: Life in the Fab Lane becomes your oasis, away from the tumult of your neighbours’ annoying kids screaming their lungs out and that sense of foreboding as you anticipate the pile of work that awaits on your desk at work.

Let’s say that you grew up in the ghetto, or somewhere in the boonies. You only saw glamour on TV, in films and in magazines. You thought your life sucked, so you aspired towards the finer things in life, not weekends spent shopping for underwear, party supplies and produce at the same store. You were a high-maintenance chick with a sharp sense of style, but all that interested you and all that you exuded clashed with the dreariness of your surroundings. When everyone else around you worked at horrible jobs that usurped their inner spark, you drifted away to your happy place, where you envisioned yourself going to fashion shows, mingling with celebs, travelling the world in first class. When your friends could barely survive, your aim was to thrive. However, thrivin’ ain’t that easy when you live in the boonies.

Lula Mae Barnes was from a small town, too. She married a veterinarian at the tender age of 14, becoming a wife and a stepmother all at once. She had big city dreams, but how can one realize those dreams while living on a farm? She had to get away, from her hometown, her husband, and her identity.

Polishing her accent and her appearance, the wide-eyed Lula Mae reinvented herself. She created a persona, much more intriguing and charming than that of a typical small town girl, or so she believed. Yes, she needed a name that one could associate with any socialite, a girl who’s name is on everyone’s lips, whose appearances to events never goes unnoticed.

Holly Golightly came to life, and thus she became the life of the party.

Late nights and early mornings, the latter spent walking back home from a shabby soirée, perusing the streets of Manhattan at the break of dawn, grabbing a coffee and pastry on the way. She comes to a halt somewhere on Fifth Avenue, gazing through a store window. Tiffany & Co. epitomizes the height of glamour to Holly and Manhattan was that deserted island she had yearned for, many years before.

Is life all about upward mobility, at all means necessary, even if it means marrying a Brazilian millionaire for his money? Longing to be blinded by the flashing lights to purposely evade from reality?

It’s the same story with Toni Childs on Girlfriends, growing up in Fresno, California with an alcoholic mother and an overall-wearing father who raised pigs for a living. Sure, she became a successful real estate agent in L.A. and went on shopping sprees topping thousands of dollars, but she resented her upbringing once she was settled into her new life. She belittled everything about her past, including her own family.

Lo and behold, she became bourgie.

The Lula Mae Syndrome ain’t no joke. Most chicks I see updating their statuses on Facebook on the weekends are all Lula Maes to me. Livin’ in the hood, didn’t have much growing up, got a nice job now, makin’ that money and livin’ the life. There’s nothing wrong with that, per se. We should all be able to enjoy life and reward ourselves for our hard work by going out with our friends, travelling to Europe or the Caribean once a year. In essence, there’s nothing wrong with posting images of yourself having a good time. Unfortunately, your priorities may get screwed up when having a good time becomes your sole purpose in life, and when your day-to-day routine revolves around “checking-in” all the time and informing people on FB where you are so they can see when you go to the hottest spots in town.

“She don’t believe in shooting stars, but she believe in shoes and cars.”

You wanted that jet-set life and you finally got it. Now what? You want something meaningful? But having 45 pairs of shoes in a walk-in closet, a brand new car, VIPs to shows and a gold card was all that you dreamt of as a kid kickin’ it in your best friend’s basement watching BET and MTV.

Everyday is a struggle for me. I’m trying not to get sucked into the glossy world of fashion and all it breeds. The perks of working as a magazine editor are sweet, but there’s a line that I’m not willing to cross. You would think that the space between going to fashion shows at night and waking up in the hood in the morning may be more of an ocean than a fine line, but there’s no smooth transition from one to the next. I go from living a dream to crashing back down to reality. Over and over again.

I remember feeling slightly out of place on my first day at Montreal Fashion Week. All the guests were in the cocktail room at Marché Bonsecours waiting for a show to begin. I was gawking at celebrities and reporters, but still tried to stay cool. Everyone was looking on point: mean shoe game on deck, hairstyles and jewellery was outlandish and everyone kept looking at me like “Who is this woman? Who are these people she’s talking to? Should I know her? How come I don’t know her?!”

Hobnobbin’, Foursquarin’, Tweetpic’in, VIP-loungin’ and stargazin’: it was just like in the movies! I totally felt like a blend of Ugly Betty and Andy Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada with a homegirl twist added to mix.

There were fashion bloggers and socialites everywhere, the kinds that take the glitz of the fashion world way too seriously, whereas most of us take it in small, gleeful doses.

The fashion show in the cocktail room ended with a roar… and with my dogs barkin’. Yes, I was wearing my 5-inch tall Rosalyns from ShoeDazzle for the occasion: if only I had known that the first fashion show would have us standing up for 40 minutes.

Yup, it’s fabulous to see all the guests wearing their sky-high heels, and killer outfits and it feels amazing to be part of them, until reality sinks in and you’re in so much pain that you can’t even enjoy yourself anymore.

Needless to say, I gave Rosalyn the night off and called in the flats for backup.

On the last day of MFW, the mood was more laid back, there were more ‘regular’ fashion lovers in attendance and the vibe was more festive than pretentious. The VIP media lounge was smaller than Bart Simpson’s tree house, but everyone wanted the privilege to flash their pass at the security guard and make their way past that velvet rope. After the last fashion show, I headed to that coveted spot in the cocktail room with the people from the magazine. And there they were: no, they weren’t actors or singers. They weren’t models or celebrities. But they were more important to me than any of these people combined.

They were players from the Montreal Alouettes.

I had never seen them before and I didn’t even know their names. I wasn’t even 100% sure they were football players! Nevertheless, I sensed from their stature that they were Alouettes.

And I was right! Oh yeah.

Part of me wanted to sashay through that crowd, flip my hair back and give a wink to that tall one I spotted (to this day, I still don’t know what is name is or the number of his jersey, but I digress). I could’ve gone the groupie route and professed my love for the Alouettes and coyly mentioned that I attended the Grey Cup parade in 2009 to celebrate my boys’ victory.

But I didn’t.

I mean, let’s be real: I was surrounded my Lula Maes who were dressed like they were ready to party in Vegas, ready to use their feminine wiles on football players and brag about it to their friends. Wait, isn’t that what I was planning on doing? Am I a Lula Mae? No, no, I’m not, because I was not dressed like I was about to drop it like it’s hot; I was in a strapless, casual chic aubergine dress, custom-made by my mother. Nothing on me screamed groupie or floozy, but it exuded fashion magazine editor. Which I am.

I didn’t charm any Alouettes with my smile, wit or stunning looks that night. I simply ogled from afar, with a palpitating heart. Then I headed back to the hood and slept in the same bedroom I’ve been sleeping in since I was four years old.

I ain’t no Lula Mae just yet.