I Denied my Inner Guidette.
There's a new reality show called, Jersey Shore. Remember the two, buff, Mafia wannabe's on the Soprano's? Jersey Shore elevates their ilk to godlike status as it follows a group of Italian kids/young adults at The Jersey Shore. No Madam Marie here. None of Sandy's Fourth of July love at the boarwalk. Not a hint of the heartache of Puerto Rican Jane.
Some folks are finding fault with the show for its stereotypes. Tanning beds and abs are Italian? Since when?
I went to a prep school. The minute I walked in, freshman (pardon me, IV Class) year, I realized there was this thing called the WASP - and I was not one of them. It was the first time I had ever felt any difference from my peers, a teeny tiny taste of feeling inferior, although nothing like other groups feel every day even in 2009.
I straightened my hair. I wore hot pink wide whale cords (for which I will NEVER forgive my sister who dragged me to Olken's in Wellesley to buy them.) I bought Bean boots (still have them and wear them.) I wore grosgrain ribbon headbands. I was a preppie. With a vowel at the end of my name. So not really a preppie at all.
How much more fun would it have been to have embraced my inner Guidette? I had the perfect hair for a mountainous spray on top of my head. I had the right lips for copious globs of pink gloss. I had big eyes that begged for sparkly eye shadow and six coats of mascara. I had a cute figure that would have looked kickin in tight jeans (wait, I did wear Sasson, does that count?)
Not sure I'll watch Jersey City - Boston Italians aren't Jersey Italians, though now I'm mid-way between the two in CT. I find it amusing that the show exists. It doesn't offend me. And maybe I'll check out the abs for a minute.