European spa women hate me. I've been interviewed by a handful of them. She always has an exotic accent and never-ending calves. She's Romanian, but she lived in France, muse to the Count of Paris and the painters; she's also Hungarian, skin made of vitamin-rich dandelions. Her wardrobe is accessorized to death with gold belts, and bracelets like ringworm round and round her arm.
I have the WORST interview handshake, uncontrollably clammy. During my interview yesterday, the spa owner looked me up and down. My suit was black and clingy with dog hair. Euro cougars are put off by how unsophisticated I am, too exuberant, splashing smiles like waves, talking with my hands. I put red eye shadow on my mouth when I want lipstick.
